


Swimming with Sharks

by Nos4a2no9



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-17
Updated: 2009-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:51:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nos4a2no9/pseuds/Nos4a2no9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ray runs into Fraser at the wrong kind of club, and the two men make an unusual arrangement with one another.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray runs into Fraser at the wrong kind of club, and the two men make an unusual arrangement with one another.

**Swimming With Sharks**

The sting operation was a mistake.

No, scratch that. The Mohawk he got in 9th grade? Was a mistake. That time he voted for Reagan? Mistake. This? This was a world-class, Grade A fuckup. Ray didn’t think Huey and Dewey could have come up with a stupider plan if they’d hired Inspector Clouseau. Ops like this were destined to fail.

Going undercover at a gay bar, for chrissake. That was their brilliant plan. One look at Tom Dewey in cut-offs and a ripped tank top—Dewey thought and dressed in clichés, it turned out—made Ray want to bolt and run.

“No way!” Ray shook his head and stabbed a finger at Dewey extra emphasis, just in case Dewey couldn’t hear him over the throbbing beat pouring out of the club’s open fire exit.

Ray, Dewey and Jack Huey (who should have at least tried to talk Dewey out of it, damn him) were all standing around Dewey’s pathetic Pinto in the service alley. They’d been arguing about the bust for so long that Ray felt like pounding his head against the car in time to the crappy techno. The sad thing was, he had a suspicion that doing so would get faster results than trying to convince Dewey that cutoffs didn’t do him any favors.

“No,” Ray said again, pronouncing the words carefully and clearly, just in case Dewey hadn’t understood him the first fifteen times. “You don’t even know if De Luca will show. And even if he does, what the hell are we going to do about it? Arrest him for hustling? It’s a gay club, Dewey. He’s not going to be doing anything in there that a thousand other guys aren’t doing already. All we’ll do is tip him off that the CPD likes him for the Church Street job, and he’ll be out on bail and out of the country before you can say, ‘Just cause.’”

His throat hurt from shouting, but he only got a blank look from Dewey and a tired shake of the head from Huey.

“Hey,” Dewey said, slapping the Pinto’s battered hood. “We’re just going to blend in, keep a lookout for De Luca, and see what he does. Maybe we can figure out who some of his KAs are.”

Ray snorted. “Known Associates? Dewey, he’s gonna be looking to get laid in there, not set up a new diamond score. De Luca’ll be celebrating. Trust me, this is going to be a waste of a night.” He popped a toothpick in his mouth and slouched back against the wall. Dewey wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, yeah, but anyone with half a brain should find that argument convincing.

But Dewy seemed pretty determined to prove that he had a lot less than half a brain.

“Look, it’ll be a cakewalk. We’ll go in, have some drinks, watch the homos in their natural environment, and nab De Luca. Easy!”

Before Ray could start to argue with him and point out that calling the gay club kids “homos” made him sound like a moron, Huey was there, putting himself between Ray and Dewey. Huey grabbed Dewey’s shoulder and shook him like he’d shake a yappy little dog that doesn’t know when to shut up.

Some days Ray felt real sorry for Jack Huey.

“Ray,” Huey said in a loud voice that cut right through the techno, “excuse us for a second.” Huey (in dress pants and a collared shirt, thank God—Ray really didn’t need to carry the image of Huey in a tank top around in his head for the rest of his life) dragged Dewey off to the end of the alley. Huey and Dewey’d be at it for a while, probably. The steady club music drowned out the sounds of their argument, but judging by the thunderous expression on Huey’s face, not to mention the angry pointing and waving he was doing in Dewey’s direction, it looked like he might be making some kind of progress. Dewey had a big mouth and a thick head, but eventually Huey’d be able talk some sense into him. That was how partnership worked. And it was kinda nice to see that even the Canadians didn’t have a lock on sheer bullheaded stubbornness.

Ray kicked the corner of a metal dumpster—ouch–and limped over to where he could get a clear angle on both the sidewalk and the club’s main entrance. He slumped back against the wall and sighed. He could use a Canadian right about now, stubborn or not. He wished Fraser could’ve come tonight, if only so the Mountie could have done his reasonable/polite thing and convinced Dewey to drop the De Luca bust while making Dewey think it was his own idea to give it up. Fraser could have talked Dewey out of this stupid plan in about ten seconds flat.

But, no. He’d thought about bringing Fraser in on it, but Fraser’d said he had some stuff to catch up on at the Consulate and Ray hadn’t wanted to push it. They’d just logged a lot of hours on a North Shore smuggling thing, and Fraser’d been pretty busy at the Consulate on top of all the extra time he’d spent with Ray. Last thing Fraser needed was to stand around half the night in some alley listening to Dewey pass verbal wind.

So Ray was glad Fraser was finally taking a night off: he’d been looking real tired lately, kind of run-down and worn around the edges, and he could definitely use the sleep. Even if Ray would’ve liked to have Fraser with him. It would’ve made Dewey’s dumb jokes more bearable if he could laugh about them with Fraser afterward.

Huey and Dewey wandered back down the alley, and by the defeated slump of Huey’s shoulders and Dewey’s cocky grin Ray knew it was signed, sealed and delivered. They were going through with it. Fuck.

As they drifted past, Ray caught at Huey’s arm. “What’s he got on you?” Ray hissed. Huey looked miserable.

“Timing,” he said. “That’s De Luca’s Lexus out front.”

“Damn,” Ray said softly, frowning.

Huey looked just as miserable as Ray felt. “We’re just here to observe, Tom.” Huey was glaring at Dewey, and using what Ray’d come to think of as Huey’s Scary Dad Voice. “No arrests, and we don’t flash our badges.”

Dewey nodded absently and waved Huey off, already focused on the doorman (who was a cousin of a cousin of Dewey’s, or something, which was just about the only reason anyone would ever let Dewey into joint like _Wet_ ).

Ray spat the wet remains of his toothpick out onto the street, and tried his best to ignore the little Fraser-voice in his head, the one that said he shouldn’t do things like that because it wasn’t polite.

At least he’d have an excuse to get out on the dance floor. He hadn’t gone clubbing since he’d taken on the Vecchio gig, and it’d be a good way to work out some of the anger he could still feel coiling through him.

“Okay,” Ray said. “But we leave before midnight, and Dewey keeps his shirt on.”

“Hey!” said Dewey.

***

It was hot and loud inside _Wet_ , and so crowded that Ray could barely move. If the windows hadn’t already been painted over they’d probably be completely steamed up from the three hundred sweaty, pulsating bodies that filled the raised dance floor and clustered around the long bar on the opposite side of the room. It was dark and too hot inside the club, and Ray found that he couldn’t see for shit, what with the near-darkness and the light show set up around the DJ’s booth. If they got lucky, maybe one of them would trip over De Luca. Because there was no way would they be able to find him in this mess, otherwise.

“You see anything?” Huey yelled in Ray’s ear, and Ray shook his head. Now this they definitely could have used Fraser for – with those eagle eyes, Fraser would’ve been able to spot De Luca quickly. Or maybe sniff him out.

Ray tried to check the faces of the men writhing and gyrating on the dance floor. It was only ten o’clock, but half of the guys out there had already lost their shirts, and some were even down to thongs. _Wet_ wasn’t exactly a happening place. It was far enough off Halsted to lose most of the Boystown traffic, but some of the guys out there really were stacked. Not that he could make out a lot of detail, but it seemed like most of the men out on the floor spent a lot of their off-hours at the gym. De Luca – short, dark-haired, and kind of dweeby-looking – wasn’t among them, at least from what Ray could see. He patted Huey’s shoulder.

“I’ll take point over by the bar. De Luca’ll head there eventually. Get Dewey to watch the floor, and you can keep an eye on the private rooms and the bathroom. We’ll find him.”

Huey, thankfully, didn’t try to argue with Ray. He seemed to the see the sense in the plan and nodded, and moved off to explain to Dewey what he was supposed to do. Dewey’s strategy hadn’t gone much beyond, “Show up and look for De Luca.” Moron.

Ray checked the club floor a couple more times, comparing the faces of the men he saw to the surveillance photos he’d seen of De Luca, and then headed over to the bar. He ordered a bottle of water and cracked open the seal, drinking deeply. The heat in here was starting to get to him a little; he was sweating under his thin t-shirt and light jacket. He shrugged out of his coat and leaned back against the bar, watching the men and carefully checking each face. None of them was De Luca, which Ray figured was just part of his rotten luck. After twenty minutes, he was bored silly.

And that was when Ray heard a familiar voice.

“Well, I can’t say with any certainty, but I do agree that cherry-flavored prophylactics sound quite unpleasant. I’ll avoid them in the future. Thank you kindly.”

Fraser. Fraser was there, in the bar, holding a…basket of condoms? Ray blinked, worried that the heat and the boredom was making him hallucinate. But no, there was Fraser in jeans, Stetson and his leather jacket, carrying a little woven basket full of small square foil packets.

He was moving slowly through the crowd around the bar, stopping every so often to invite the men to take some of the Trojans and Sheiks and Ramses out of the basket. A group of guys trailed after Fraser, too, reaching around him to grab a handful of condoms and, it looked like, get in a free grope while they were at it. Their hands skimmed Fraser’s side, his ass, his chest, and some of them pressed a little too close. One of the bolder guys—a big Latino with curly dark hair—leaned in to whisper something in Fraser’s ear. Ray could see Fraser’s blush from all the way over by the bar.

He wasn’t too sure what to do. Shock held him frozen for a long moment, and by the time his brain was able to process a few key facts— _Fraser was here_ and _Fraser was giving out condoms?_ —the white noise in his head started to fade a little and he could hear the throbbing techno and the constant rumble of a hundred different conversations. He was still confused, though. What the hell was Fraser doing here?

Then it clicked. Fraser had got wind of the De Luca thing, somehow, and decided to come down to the club to help out. And it made sense in a weird Fraser-ish kind of way, Ray figured. If Fraser distributed condoms and got a chance to talk to pretty much every guy in the club, he could use the chance to ask about De Luca. Actually, that was a pretty good plan. No one would think that the guy handing out Trojans in a queer club was a cop.

“Remember,” Fraser was saying, using his hearty public-service-announcement voice so he could be to be heard above the music. He held his basket up. “All sexual activity should be safe!”

Ray grinned at that, and stepped away from the crowd a little so Fraser would see him. Only Fraser could make sex sound so…wholesome.

But the instant Fraser looked up and saw Ray, Ray’s little theory about Fraser actually being there to join the bust melted away. Fraser was normally pretty good at hiding what he felt—so much so that Ray suspected he’d actually be pretty good at undercover work, if Fraser could ever manage to tell a lie and make it sound halfway convincing—but in those first few seconds, Ray could see every single thing Fraser was feeling right there on his face.

There was the shock of recognition, like Ray had first at felt, and then that faded into confusion and…fear? No, not fear: he could tell by the way Fraser’s hand relaxed a little on the basket, and how Fraser licked his lips. That was nervousness. He was glad to see Ray, even if he wasn’t sure what it meant that Ray was in a gay bar.

The music changed from the constant battering techno beat into a slower synth tune Ray remembered from his days at _Limelight_ back in the ’80s. The club’s internal lighting had dimmed, and someone turned on a set of strobes that revealed the action on the dance floor in short, lightning-quick flashes of white light.

“Ray?” Fraser asked, looking excited and oddly hopeful in the light-dark-light flash of the strobe. “What are you—”

“Hey, Fraser! Glad you could make it!”

Dewey. Fuck. Ray ground his teeth, resisting the urge to push Dewey away when he casually slung an arm around Ray’s shoulder. Fraser looked even more puzzled and…was that disappointment flickering across his face, frozen in the white glare of the strobe?

“Ray said you were busy tonight. Vecchio, you really should keep better tabs on your boyfriend,” Dewey advised, and grabbed Ray’s water bottle. He took a long sip and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks, buddy. This is like looking for a needle in a gay-stack. Get it?”

Ray was going to kill Tom Dewey. No one would ever say it was murder. He’d be doing a public service.

“Ray, what are you doing here?” Fraser finally asked, as though Dewey hadn’t even spoken. His eyes were still locked on Ray, and Ray wondered if Fraser was even aware of Dewey’s presence. “Are you here because—?”

“He’s just here for backup,” Dewey said, rubbing a heavy hand through Ray’s hair, messing up the spikes and probably getting some of that awful fish-smell all over him. Ray wasn’t sure why Dewey was so handsy all of a sudden. Something about the environment, maybe. Being around all the gay guys probably made Dewey think he had something to prove.

Ray shook off Dewey’s touch, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his jeans. “Screw you,” he said, and then, silently, swore. That was the best he could do?

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dewey said, holding up his hands in mock-apology. “What, am I interrupting you and the boyfriend? You need some alone time with your better half, Vecchio?”

Ray’s whole body tensed, and he dropped immediately into a fighter’s stance. He could almost _taste_ how great it’d feel to sock Dewey in the jaw and wipe that smirk off the guy’s face.

“Anyway, I’m gonna go find Jack. Keep an eye out for De Luca, okay? I know this place is great and all, but don’t get too caught up in…whatever.” Dewey’s smile was ugly. “I’d hate to keep you two lovebirds apart. But remember, we’ve got a job to do.”

And just like that, Ray’s control snapped. He had Dewey shoved up against the bar in five seconds flat, his left hand twisted Dewey’s tank top, his right drawn back, ready to pop him. He could feel Dewey fighting for air, thrashing against him, short legs flopping around in those stupid cut-offs, but Ray didn’t care. He just…he just couldn’t stand Dewey and his stupid jokes and his fucking—

“Ray. Ray. Ray.” Fraser’s voice sounded like it was coming down a long, red-tinged tunnel. “Let him go, Ray.” Ray felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and suddenly Ray could breathe again. Fraser’s hand was warm through his t-shirt and jacket; it reminded Ray where they were, and what they were there to do. Cop. Right. Cop-stuff. And cop-stuff didn’t go with “murder-Tom-Dewey” stuff.

He closed his eyes, breathing in deep until the desire to knock Dewey in the head a couple of hundred times faded, and he could make himself let go of Dewey’s shirt.

Dewey stumbled away from him, his face white. “Jesus, Vecchio, you’re crazy!”

Fraser let go of his shoulder, and Ray slumped, still breathing hard. He scrubbed at his face.

“What’s going on?”

Huey was there, suddenly, and Ray opened his eyes to find all three of them staring at him, plus another dozen or so disappointed-looking clubgoers who’d probably been itching for a real fight. The club kids went back to what they were doing when they realized Ray wasn’t going to actually clobber Dewey, but Huey was glaring at both of them.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ray muttered, grabbing for his abandoned water bottle before he remembered that it had Dewey’s spit all over it. He set it back down with a grimace. “I just…I lost my temper.”

“Obviously,” said Huey, who turned and whacked Dewey sharply on the back of the head. “What the hell did you say to Vecchio, man?”

“N-nothing,” Dewey sputtered. He was staring at Ray like Ray’d grown a third head. “I just—I just—it was a fucking joke!”

“I know,” Ray said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on. He did know that Dewey had only been kidding around. “I’m just sick of your dumb jokes.”

“Christ!” Dewey said, still rubbing at his throat, like he could wipe off the bruises already forming there. “You’re lucky I don’t charge you with assault!”

Ray nodded mutely. Yeah, he knew he was lucky.

He risked a quick glance at Fraser, who stood at Ray’s side, impassive and eerily calm. His mouth was pulled tight in a frown, and his eyes were hard. Ray thought of those time-lapse films he’d seen in that college science class forever ago. The sun setting. Flowers wilting. The bodies of animals decaying and being eaten by insects. He saw Fraser slowly implode in each the short burst of the strobe.

This was bad. This was really, really bad. Fraser was angry, or hurt, or both, and Ray wasn’t sure why.

“C’mon, Frase,” Ray said quietly. “I’ll give you a ride home.” He knew he wouldn’t be any more help with the bust, not with Dewey giving him that scared-rabbit look and Huey acting like he was ready to call in the guys with the big butterfly nets.

“No thank you, Ray,” Fraser said. His voice was polite but very, very cold. Ray could practically see ice forming around Fraser’s words. “I’d prefer to walk.”

Ray wanted to pull on his own hair, or kick something, or punch someone. Not Dewey, of course, but someone. Goddamn it. “Look, Fraser, I’m sorry. I—”

“Hey, look! It’s De Luca!” Dewey interrupted, pointing— _pointing_ , the moron—in the general direction of the bathrooms. And yep, there was De Luca, tugging some guy into the men’s room. Huey and Dewey took off after him, although what they hoped to accomplish Ray didn’t know, and that left Ray and Fraser standing awkwardly together by the bar.

“Look, Frase, I’m sorry,” Ray said. “Dewey’s a jerkwad. He practically majored in it in college. ‘Jerk’ with a capital ‘J’, and a minor in ‘Douchebag.’ You know this.”

Fraser bit his lip and looked away. Christ, he wouldn’t even meet Ray’s eyes.

“It’s not Dewey’s reaction that concerns me, Ray.” Fraser finally looked at him then. It was a long, tense look that made Ray’s heart pound a little funny. He felt like he was a specimen under a microscope, and Fraser was the guy peering down at him. He’d seen Fraser look like that at suspects in a major-crimes case. But Fraser had never turned his cop stare on Ray before.

Ray shuffled his feet and clenched and unclenched his fists a couple of times, waiting for the adrenaline pounding through his system to fade a little so he could think, and figure this out. Why was Fraser looking at him like that?

“Frase, I—” he tried, but trailed off helplessly. He could feel other people staring at the two of them: guys in the club, a couple of bouncers, the bartender. Did they think he and Fraser were going to fight each other? “What’s wrong, Fraser?”

Fraser blinked a couple of times and shook his head. That intense, searching look on his face, the cop-stare, faded a little. “Nothing. I…it was my mistake.”

And for an instant, Fraser looked so sad and defeated that Ray wanted to sling an arm around his shoulder. Give him a hug, even, although this wasn’t exactly a safe place to do a thing like that. People might get the wrong idea.

That look on Fraser’s face made Ray shudder. It was worse than the cop look, because Fraser wasn’t the kind of person who should ever feel sad and hopeless. That wasn’t who Fraser was. But Ray had screwed up. Said something dumb. Disappointed his best friend.

And in the half-second it took for Ray to wonder what it was that he’d done, Fraser was gone.

***


	2. Chapter 2

***

It didn’t take long to wrap up things at the club. De Luca had skedaddled during all the excitement, and Dewey was in a pissy mood because of it. Well, that and the whole assault thing. Dewey was complaining loudly about having to buy a new shirt, and Ray knew he’d be hearing about it from Welsh it the morning. Right now, though, he was too tired to care what the Lieu’d have to say about their miserable failure at the club and Ray’s assault of a fellow officer. He left Huey to deal with Dewey and went out to look for his own partner.

He ran through the whole evening again as he peeled out of the parking lot, everything he’d said to Fraser, Fraser’s “It’s not Dewey’s reaction that concerns me” and “It was my mistake” pounding away like the bad techno beat beneath it all. He’d been shocked to see Fraser in that club, and it’d thrown him, yeah, but that was because he wasn’t sure if Fraser’d really been there as part of the undercover detail.

Fraser had been just as surprised to see Ray as Ray’d been to see him. It’d shocked him, in fact. And there was no other reason for Fraser to be at the club unless…unless…

Fraser was at the club. As in, Fraser was _at the club_.

Ray stopped at a red light, his mind racing. What the hell had Benton Fraser been doing in a gay bar on a Saturday night with a basketful of Trojans?

He ran through possible explanations in his head. Fraser’d been handing out condoms, so maybe he was there as part of some kind of community service thing. Only Ray didn’t know many church groups or charitable organizations that handed out condoms at nightclubs. Red-light districts, yeah, and he knew some groups did sex-ed stuff in the gay go-gos, but _Wet_ was upscale enough so that the guys there probably could afford their own condoms, and it catered to an older crowd experienced enough to know how to use them. A sex-ed group would probably focus on the bars closer to Halsted, where the fake-ID set went.

Of course, Fraser could have been doing the condom-distribution thing on his own steam, since he was always making Ray stop to pick up some trash on the side of the road or helping old ladies cross the street, but that didn’t quite track, either. If Fraser was going to do charity, Ray had a feeling that he was probably going to do something a little more ‘help the needy’-ish than distributing condoms at _Wet_.

So, if he wasn’t there as part of the job, and if he wasn’t there to do community service, that left…what?

The idea came to him slowly, but the instant it was fully-formed Ray flicked on his turn signal and pulled over. He wasn’t sure if he could drive and think about Fraser cruising a gay bar at the same time. It was too much to process, like trying to walk and chew gum.

On a tightrope.

Strung over a pool of man-eating sharks.

Ray leaned back in his seat, his head thumping against the headrest. Okay. So—facts first, and then he’d take another peek at those sharks down there and see how he was doing.

 _Fact #1: Fraser was queer_. Fraser’d been wandering around a gay club on the North Side passing out condoms. He’d been on the prowl. The conclusion seemed pretty obvious. Fraser liked men. Fraser wanted to have sex with men. Which led to…

 _Fact #2: Fraser wanted to have sex_. And before tonight, Ray wouldn’t have thought “Fraser” and “sex” would ever end up in the same sentence, unless there was a “doesn’t like” or “isn’t aware of the existence of” stuck in the middle somewhere.

 _Fact #3: Fraser did casual._ And that thought was even stranger than the notion of Fraser as a sex-loving gay guy.

Sure, something about Fraser made the queer thing possible, what with him being eternally single and good-looking and neat and kind of odd anyway.

And Ray could accept, sort of, that Fraser might like sex. He’d never said anything, of course, being Fraser, but Ray figured that because Fraser was a human being with a heartbeat, he probably liked the touching and the closeness and the getting-off part of sex. Might even miss it, even if Fraser’d never had it as part of a regular thing. Which Ray didn’t think he did. Fraser’d never mentioned having a regular girlfriend—or a boyfriend—before.

But Fraser being queer enough and needing sex enough to go to a bar and hook up with some stranger? That was the part Ray didn’t get. Fraser was always so…old-fashioned. Ray really couldn’t imagine him going home with someone he’d just met. Of all the guys Ray knew, Fraser was the least likely to sleep around. He just seemed to need more than that, somehow.

That thought caught Ray by surprise. He squinted into the headlights of an oncoming car, blinking away the momentary blindness as the vehicle passed.

Now that he thought about it, Fraser really did seem to be the mate-for-life type. Ray was sure of it. But when, exactly, had he reached that particular conclusion? Since when did Ray sit around thinking about Fraser’s sex life?

He shook his head and shrugged off that whole line of thinking. That was a whole other pool of sharks, and Ray knew that if he looked down into it, he’d fall.

He pressed his forehead against the steering wheel and closed his eyes. The hard molded plastic felt good, nice and cool after the sweaty heat of the club. He could stay like this for a while. The car was a great place to think, and maybe he really should spend some time figuring out what he’d say to Fraser once he caught up to him. Should he apologize? He’d disappointed Fraser over the thing with Dewey, maybe hurt him, and Ray wanted to make it right. But first he had to know what he was sorry _for_. That was rule number one in the Sincere Apology Olympics. As a multiple medalist in the sport, Ray should know.

He went back to his mental fact sheet—Fraser was queer, check, Fraser liked sex, check, Fraser did casual, double check, weird as that was—and tried to figure out what the hell he’d done wrong. The answer still refused to come. Fraser knew Ray had a temper and, while he might have been disappointed in Ray, he wouldn’t have been _hurt_ by Ray’s attempt to kill Dewey. So it had to be something else, something Ray did. Or said. But he hadn’t said much more than a surprised “Fraser?” before Dewey stuck his dumb foot in and—

Oh. _Oh_. Fuck.

He knocked his head against the horn, which let out a short, squat ‘boink’ that sounded like some kind of goose mating call. It was a stupid noise for a muscle car like the GTO to make, but it seemed to fit the way Ray made everything within a five-mile radius fizzle out.

 _Dewey_ wasn’t the biggest jerkwad in Chicago. No wonder Fraser’d been hurt, or offended, or whatever that dying look on his face had meant. Ray’d gone nuclear over Dewey’s stupid crack, and Fraser probably thought that Ray anti-gay or something, instead of just anti-Dewey.

Well. He’d find Fraser—the stubborn Mountie’d probably tried to walk all 46 blocks back to the Consulate—and apologize. He’d explain all about the lousy bust, Dewey’s dumb insistence on doing everything the most ass-wrong way he could, and hopefully it’d get through Fraser’s thick skull that Ray had no problem with gay guys. Particularly not if said gay guy was his best friend and partner.

Ray wheeled out into the traffic lane and started scanning the streets for a big guy in a Stetson.

***

He caught up to Fraser just a little south of Clybourn. Fraser’d made good time on the empty streets, and Ray had almost giving up searching and headed back to the Consulate to wait for him. But there was Fraser, caught in the headlights of the Goat, clipping along in his big hiking boots. And despite the sick feeling of nervousness and fear surging through him, Ray had to smile. Only Fraser would go clubbing wearing shoes like that.

The rest of Fraser looked like a Sears ad: the combination of soft leather jacket, red flannel shirt and jeans made him look like the lumberjack on the paper towel packaging. He’d stood out like a sore thumb at the club. Even Dewey’d managed to blend in better than Fraser.

Although, come to think of it, most of the guys in the club weren’t wearing jeans nearly as tight as Fraser’s. _And when, exactly, did you start noticing how tight Fraser’s pants were?_ asked the shark-pool voice in Ray’s head, which he chose to ignore.

Ray beeped the horn, pleased when it made a good, hearty, full-throated _beeeeeep!_ this time.

Fraser turned, squinting into the GTO’s headlights, and Ray stuck his head out the window. “Hey, Frase. C’mon, I’ll give you a ride home,” he offered, hoping Fraser would give in right away so Ray wouldn’t have to pace him in the car.

No such luck. Fraser turned away and sped up a little. Ray cursed silently and drew even with Fraser, matching the Goat’s speed to Fraser’s fast walk. “Fraser! Just, please, get in the car. I’m sorry, okay? I want to talk to you about what happened.”

That seemed to have a bit of an impact. Fraser stopped walking and stood still, breathing steady. His shoulders seemed to droop, and Ray thought he looked like a guy who’d gone sixteen rounds with himself and lost. It was obvious—seriously obvious—that the last thing in the world Fraser wanted to do was get in the car with Ray, but he felt he had to. And Ray hadn’t seen Fraser look like that, sad, and confused, and so goddamn disappointed, since they’d first met eighteen months ago, when Fraser had called out to his best friend and found Ray in Vecchio’s place.

Ray had never, ever wanted to see Fraser look like that. Not ever again.

“Please, Fraser,” Ray said, his voice softer now. “Just…get in the car, okay?”

After another ten seconds of heart-thumping indecision, during which Ray was _sure_ , absolutely sure, that Fraser would turn and walk out of his life forever, he finally gave a weird little nod of defeat and headed over to the passenger door.

Ray swallowed back against the bitter aftertaste of fear. What would he have done if Fraser had just walked away? He couldn’t even imagine what it’d be like if Fraser refused to talk to him. He shuddered a little at the thought and scrambled to unlock the door before Fraser tried the handle.

Fraser slid into the passenger seat, removing his hat and laying it primly on his lap. He didn’t say anything. And didn’t say anything. And didn’t say anything.

Ray coughed into the silence, and put the car in gear. He gave himself a few seconds’ grace to think in the time it took to pull away from the curb and ease out onto the empty street.

“Look, I—” he began, but it came out kind of whiny. He tried again. “I’m really sorry about what happened at the club, Fraser. I acted like a jerk.”

“I thought that was Detective Dewey’s exclusive area of expertise.”

“Heh,” Ray said, relaxing just the slightest bit. If Fraser could make a funny—a small, bitter joke, but a joke nonetheless—then maybe Ray hadn’t fucked up too bad. “Well, I dabble sometimes too,” he said, and frowned. “When I got mad like that I was pissed at Dewey, okay? Not at you.” Ray took a quick breath, and pushed through the rest of it. God, this stuff was hard to say. “Or whatever it is you do when you’re not with me and you’re not at the Consulate.”

Which was actually a pretty limited amount of time, now that he thought about it. When they weren’t working a case and Fraser wasn’t running errands for the Ice Queen, he and Fraser spent a lot of extra time together. Hell, sometimes Fraser spent every day of the week with Ray, hanging out, grabbing dinner, watching a game over at Ray’s apartment. In fact, Ray had been sure he was pretty much Fraser’s whole social life.

And it hurt, just slightly, just a little, to know that Fraser hadn’t told Ray what he did in his spare time. It felt like a betrayal, in a weird way. They were a couple of sad-sack single guys. Losers at love, both of them. Neither one of them had the…wiring, or whatever, to make it work with other people. But at least they’d had each other, been on the same page.

Only Fraser had this whole other life at Wet, and places like it, and Ray didn’t know anything about it. Fraser’d been meeting people, getting laid, and all if it was a violation of their unspoken sad sack single-guy pact.

Ray glanced at Fraser, and one look at Fraser’s tight, controlled expression was enough to remind Ray that he was the one who’d messed up here, and stuck his size 11s in his mouth. He was the one who had to apologize. It wasn’t like Fraser owed him anything. No explanations, no requirement to explain how he spent his off time, or who he hung out with. Ray knew that. They were…friends. That was all. Just good friends. Best friends. Simple as spark plugs.

“Anyway,” Ray said quickly, breaking hard so he wouldn’t run a yellow light and risk pissing Fraser off even more. “I just wanted you to know that I got no problem with you…y’know. Being queer.”

That was hard to say. The word stuck in his throat a little, and he swallowed and counted to ten in his head, staring at the now-red light. When he looked away he could still see the bright point of light where the traffic signal had fried his eyes.

Fraser still wasn’t looking at him. “That’s quite magnanimous of you, Ray,” he said, and whoa. Pissy. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that you’re willing to tolerate my eccentricities.”

“Hey,” Ray said quickly, feeling a little pissy himself. “Don’t be like that. Don’t make it sound like that. I’m not trying to _tolerate_ anything. I’m just trying to say that—”

“What?” Fraser snapped, twisting in the seat so he could look at Ray’s face. “You’re trying to apologize for behaving as though the very idea of you and me…” Fraser hesitated, seeming to stumble over the words, and then pushed on. “As though the very idea of you and me together made you physically ill.”

Ray slammed on the brakes, and this time there wasn’t a yellow light in sight. He pulled over. The streets were empty, yeah, but fighting with Fraser always made him crazy and Ray didn’t trust himself to concentrate fully on his driving.

“Stop putting words in my mouth! I hate that! Do not do that, Fraser.” Ray jabbed his hands into the space between them, stopping just short of Fraser’s flannel-covered chest. He couldn’t risk poking Fraser, not when he wanted to punch him. “You really think I’m some kind of queer-basher?”

Fraser had the grace to look a little embarrassed. He shut his mouth and stared out the window, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with anger. His hair was a little mussed, too—nothing like its usual smooth, gleaming order, but kind of dark and…curly. Huh.

Ray shook his head and reminded himself that they were in the midst of an argument and the state of Fraser’s hair was irregular. Irreverent. Whatever. Fraser’s hair didn’t matter.

“I think—” Fraser shifted and let out a long, slow breath. “I think you’re the product of your environment, Ray. As are we all. And you’ve never expressed any particular sympathy for those who embrace alternative sexualities and lifestyles. In fact, when we investigated that domestic assault last month, you seemed to agree that Mr. Amos had received his just desserts.”

Ray gaped at Fraser. He couldn’t believe that Fraser—Fraser, of all people!—could have so totally misunderstood why Ray’d made that call.

“That’s because he was a low-down cheating dog! Amos was a piece of shit who deserved to get that pot roast in the face. I didn’t care who he’d stepped out on. Boyfriend, girlfriend—whatever. Doesn’t matter to me. I was just glad Andy stuck up for himself and broke up with the bastard. I told him to use words next time, instead of red meat, but that was it.”

He took a deep breath. “You really think I’m a bigot, Fraser?”

Fraser ran his thumb over his eyebrow. “I—no. Of course not.” He sighed, and the anger seemed to drain out of his body. Fraser relaxed a little—or relaxed as much as he ever did, because his posture was still perfect and his knees were pressed together—and settled into a more comfortable position in the passenger’s seat. “I would never think that of you, Ray. But you were upset by Dewey’s accusations.”

“Yeah, I was.” Ray muttered. He was starting to feel a bit better. It’d hurt to think that Fraser, who knew him better than just about anybody, would believe he was an asshole like that. And he wasn’t. Not really. It was just…complicated. More complicated than even a sharp guy like Fraser would guess.

“I got gay friends, you know,” Ray said quietly. “Or I did, once.”

Fraser shot him a sharp, curious look, and Ray shrugged and looked away. Maybe he’d tell Fraser about Barry Sbroczynski from highschool, who’d been just as crazy about classic cars as Ray himself, and also loved the Cubbies even though they sucked. Or Mark Miller, one of the guys Ray’d been friends with in college. Mark had been into art and Iggy and the Stooges, and he was the only person Ray had known during those two years who thought that Ray had an actual, honest-to-god shot at getting together with Stella. Both of them had been good guys, great friends, although they’d lost touch after Ray’d finally convinced Stella to marry him.

So maybe he’d tell Fraser about them. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Telling Fraser about Barry and Mark would mean he’d also have to tell Fraser about Larry Chan, and Ray’d never told anyone about that case. Not even Stella.

“The point is,” Ray said, shaking off the memories, “I’m not some redneck creep—” and he spread his hands wide, then closed them into fists. “Anyway. I’m not like that. I like gay guys fine.” He shot Fraser a quick look. “That’s what you are, right? Gay?”

Fraser looked out the window again. He’d gone still, and he looked a little pale under the yellow streetlights. “Yes,” he said quietly. “If you insist on using a label. I’m…I’m a homosexual.”

“Okay,” Ray said, just as quietly, matching his tone carefully to Fraser’s. He wished Fraser would look at him. The thought of reaching out and touching him, patting him on the back, maybe, or the shoulder, crossed Ray’s mind, but Fraser was all curled up like that against the passenger door and sending out all kinds of _Do Not Touch_ signals. A different approach would probably get better results, Ray decided.

“Y’know,” he said, “it really pissed me off, believing that you thought I’d have a problem with your being gay. But I get that maybe people haven’t reacted so well. Before. When you told them.”

Bingo. Fraser tensed, every muscle strung tight as piano wire, and he clenched the Stetson so tightly that he almost mangled the brim. Ray reached out and grabbed the hat before Fraser did any major damage. He was a little surprised by how easily Fraser let it go.

“Did Vecchio—?”

“Ray,” Fraser said, and his voice was deep and pain-rough. “I’d prefer not to go into it.”

He was looking around desperately, searching, Ray suspected, for some kind of distraction, or an escape hatch. But since the Goat wasn’t the Batmobile, Fraser wouldn’t be able to find a button for an ejection seat. _Sorry, buddy_ , Ray thought.

“He didn’t approve, huh?”

“Ray Vecchio is a good friend,” Fraser said slowly, grinding out every word like it was costing him something. He’d tensed up again, and he clearly did not want to talk about Vecchio. “Whatever his opinion of my sexuality, he was loyal and thought of nothing but my best interests.”

Ray practically snorted. ‘Best interests?’ Right. Ray was fluent enough in Fraser-speak to do a quick translation: Vecchio’d lost his shit.

“How’d he figure it out?” Ray asked before he could think about it, imagining Vecchio walking in on Fraser and some guy, or bumping into him at a club like Ray had.

Fraser went a little paler, if that were possible. “I told him,” he said quietly. “And the experience was enough to convince me that it was better not to—”

“Better not to what? Better not to talk about yourself? Tell the people who care about you who you really are? Jeeze, Fraser, what the hell did Vecchio say to you?”

“Nothing,” Fraser said, and God, he looked miserable. He’d folded his big white hands in his lap because, Ray guessed, they was shaking too hard for him to hide it. “Ray didn’t say anything. That was part of the problem, actually. He refused to speak of it after I told him. He preferred to think that I wasn’t…that I didn’t…”

“Yeah,” Ray said shortly. He could imagine all of the things Ray Vecchio didn’t want—or couldn’t stand—to hear. Vecchio’s files made it pretty clear that the guy really had been a good friend to Fraser. But Ray doubted that Ray the Former would’ve been thrilled to have a queer friend. Vecchio had seemed to think of Fraser as a brother. And the last thing an old-school guy like Ray Vecchio probably wanted to do was think about his _brother_ out sucking dick in a nightclub a couple of nights a week.

It was blowing Ray’s mind a little, too.

“You ever tell anyone else?” Ray asked, just to have something to say. Fraser shook his head.

“Who else would I tell?”

Ray thought about that for a second. Who else would Fraser tell? It wasn’t like the guy was swimming in friends and family. In fact, he had even fewer people in his life than Ray did. At least Ray had his mom and dad, even though they’d gone back to spend the winter in Arizona. And Ray had the guys at the 1-8, his aunt out in Skokie, and some of his old buddies from the neighborhood. And Stella, who was at least taking his calls again. Sometimes.

But who did Fraser have, besides Ray and a deaf half-wolf?

“Did your dad know? Before…before he was killed, I mean.” He’d surprised himself with the question, because he’d never really asked Fraser much about his dad. The question had surprised Fraser, too, it looked like.

“No,” Fraser said, tilting his head to the side like Dief did when the wolf was reading lips. “At least, I don’t think he knew. Not as a certainty. Not while he was alive.”

Ooookay. That was kind of weirdly specific. “Um, what about your grandparents?”

Fraser shifted a little, clearly uncomfortable. “Ray—”

Ray ignored him. They were going to _talk_ , because it was clear that he couldn’t trust Fraser to tell him any of the important stuff on his own. “So Vecchio was the only person you ever told?”

“My grandmother knew,” Fraser said reluctantly, clearly eager to have the whole conversation over and done with. “She did try to be understanding. She circled the relevant chapter in _Sexual Behavior in the Human Male_ and assured me that it was quite common for young teenaged boys to experiment with one another.”

Ray’s head snapped up at that. Young teenaged boys? “Fraser, how old were you when—?”

“Thirteen,” Fraser said, and frowned. “She caught a friend and me together, in the barn behind the shinny pond.”

Ray winced. Sure, Fraser sounded calm about it now, but Jesus, that must’ve been embarrassing.

“So your grandma caught you fooling around with your friend and gave you a homework assignment. Your dad wasn’t around enough to notice that you were more interested in boys than girls, and your best friend—” Ray paused, feeling the same little stab of jealousy that cut through him whenever he thought about Vecchio being Fraser’s _real_ buddy. “Your best friend flipped out when you said something, and then he refused to talk about it. That’s…not the best track record there, Frase.”

Fraser nodded once and then fell silent. He looked sad and lonely and small, all hunched up against the passenger-side door. Like the past hurts and disappointments had shrunk him down in size. And the Benton Fraser Ray knew was a pretty big guy. Larger than life, in a lot of ways.

Maybe that was part of the problem.

Ray sighed, and finally reached out to put his hand on Fraser’s shoulder, just like Fraser’d done for him in the club. Fraser was warm and solid under Ray’s hand, but Ray could feel the lingering tension in Fraser’s muscles, and in the way he was holding himself so stiff and so still. Ray knew he had to say something—anything—to get Fraser to relax a little. They couldn’t talk if the guy was ready to make a break for it the second Ray said or did something wrong.

Inspiration struck. “So, um, why were you handing out condoms?” Fraser glanced at him a bit anxiously, and Ray continued. “Well, it’s kind of a funny way of meeting guys. You could probably just try talking to them. Let them know you’re interested.”

That seemed to relax Fraser a bit, and the heavy atmosphere in the car felt a little lighter.

“I thought…I thought it might be a good way to familiarize myself with the environment first, before attempting to—”

Fraser coughed, and Ray was pretty sure his cheeks were bright red. He took pity on Fraser and interrupted the poor guy before he gave himself a heart attack. There was just no way to say, “I wanted to get the lay of the land before I got laid” politely.

“So you’re not seeing anyone?” Rau asked, and the question seemed to help get Fraser back on familiar ground. He looked at Ray in surprise.

“In what sense?”

“In the sense of…I dunno, having a regular thing with one of the guys. Having someone you go out to dinner with, spend the weekends with.”

The second he said it, Ray felt his own cheeks start to heat. Dammit. He knew better than to let his mouth run away like that. Because hell, by that definition, Fraser did have a boyfriend. Him. Minus one or two key parts of the typical dating relationship, of course.

Ray risked a glance at Fraser, who’d finally stopped looking like a guy who was ready to throw himself off the nearest El track. He just looked tired now, and a little puzzled. Fraser’s eyes were blue and steady as they fixed on Ray’s, and Fraser’s posture had eased and loosened up, his shoulders unclenching slightly. He’d finally seemed to get it: Ray really was okay talking about this stuff.

This? This was progress.

“No,” Fraser said slowly, uncertainly, almost like he wasn’t sure if that was the right answer. “No, I’m not seeing anyone right now.”

“Oh,” Ray said, and looked out the window so he wouldn’t have to look at Fraser’s big strong-looking hands. The little warm feeling pressing up inside of him was just the same feeling Ray always got when he solved a case, Ray told himself. He wasn’t _relieved_. He wasn’t.

“But you’d tell me if there was a regular guy, right?” Ray said quietly, watching the wind toss dead leaves and bits of garbage around on the street outside. “You’d tell me if you met somebody?”

He felt the weight of Fraser’s stare, and scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck. Jeeze, he couldn’t afford to look like some kind of jealous freak, not after the whole stalking-Stella thing. Fraser had enough to worry about without thinking that Ray’d do something like that. And he wouldn’t. Not to a friend.

“I’d just want to, y’know. Check up on the guy. Make sure he’s good enough for you.”

Fraser smiled a little, the first hint of amusement creeping in to melt the hard edges of his expression. Fraser never smiled, not really. The guy had a bone-dry sense of humour and Ray’d only ever heard him laugh, really _laugh_ , a couple of times in nearly two years, but he was doing his little Fraser-smile thing right now. The corners of his mouth were turned up, and the misery in his eyes had eased a little. He still looked sad, but now his sadness was sort of…wistful. Which was a weird word, but one that seemed to fit.

Anyway, Fraser was doing better, which meant Ray was, too. “Thank you, Ray. That’s kind of you.”

“Yeah, well, I watch out for my buddies,” Ray said, feeling warm and a little funny about Fraser’s gratitude. He fired up the Goat and got them pointed toward the Consulate.

“Frankly, Frase, I think you need all the help you can get.”

 

***


	3. Chapter 3

***

Things went back to normal faster than Ray would’ve expected. Fraser was a little awkward at the station the next morning after Ray got done listening to Welsh chew him out about the whole grabbing-Dewey thing. (Welsh’d done all the yelling for show, mostly, because Welsh admitted that he himself had wanted to choke Dewey on more than one occasion.) Even though Fraser didn’t seem to know what to say to Ray when he showed up in the station, they got through it okay.

Ray spent the afternoon keeping Fraser distracted with loud complaints about the station coffee and the gross sandwiches in the vending machine and the endless paperwork on the De Luca debacle. Finally, Fraser seemed to get the message: Everything Was Cool. They were Coolsville. The only thing that’d changed was that Ray knew a little more about Fraser’s personal life now. Or, okay, now he knew that Fraser _had_ a personal life. Or, at least Fraser _wanted_ a personal life. Which was enough of a shock that the whole gay thing didn’t seem like such a big deal. In fact, Ray figured they were doing pretty well.

And it turned out that nothing had really changed. They worked cases and grabbed dinner and watched hockey, and Fraser helped Ray tune up the Goat on Saturday just like they’d planned before the whole thing at _Wet_ had gone down. Which was good, because even though Fraser was possibly the worst driver Ray’d ever seen, he did know a thing or two about engines. They had beers after they’d finished with the tuneup, and they talked about guy stuff.

Well, Ray had a beer, Fraser had milk, and they talked about ptarmigan migration and the exact method of properly desiccating a caribou carcass, but Ray figured that it still probably counted. It was normal, at least. Normal for them.

And just like normal, they didn’t talk about what Fraser was going to do later that night. Because usually Fraser didn’t do anything on Saturday night except hang out with Ray. But Saturday was club night, after all, or so Ray recalled from his halfhearted attempts at dating after Stella had finally kicked him out for good. And all day long Ray wondered what, exactly, Fraser would do after Ray dropped him off at the Consulate.

Ray’d thought about it as they changed the oil in the GTO, and he’d thought about it some more while they worked on replacing the spark plugs. Because, what would happen after he drove Fraser back to the Consulate? Fraser would go inside, all sweaty and greased-stained from working on the car, and peel out of his old t-shirt and grubby jeans. He’d step into the Consulate’s narrow old-fashioned shower, and duck his head under the spray before grabbing the soap and working up a lather, and scrubbing himself off.

Ray wasn’t sure where his little mental slideshow had come from. He’d stilled in the midst of recapping the oil jug, and the image of Fraser in the shower had just flooded over him. He could picture it all, up to and including Fraser bracing himself against the tiled wall, one strong arm extended, as he closed his eyes and let the hot spray from the shower soak into his tired muscles.

The images kept coming. Ray pictured Fraser shaving carefully in his cracked little shaving mirror, and then getting dressed in another pair of those tight jeans and a soft flannel shirt. Maybe he’d be whistling to himself, pausing a couple of times to remind the wolf not to wait up. And maybe—God, maybe Fraser would even put a condom in his hat for safekeeping. Maybe he’d put a whole _strip_ of them in his Stetson. He’d probably check himself over in the mirror one last time, not because he was vain, although Christ knew someone who looked like Fraser had every reason to be vain. He’d just want to make sure he looked presentable. And then Fraser would head out on the town.

And that’s where the pictures in Ray’s head grew fuzzy and ill-defined. The getting-ready stuff he could see clearly: Fraser cleaning up, shaving and getting dressed, preparing to go out and get laid. Intent and deliberate Fraser was someone Ray could see clearly. But the part where Fraser actually went out and did some random guy? Well, that kept tripping Ray up. It just didn’t seem possible.

So maybe it wasn’t that easy for Fraser. Maybe Fraser just stripped down and washed the city grime off himself, and maybe he got a little hard under the shower—Ray himself did, all the time—but maybe Fraser would refuse to touch himself. Maybe he didn’t want to give himself that kind of relief. Because maybe…maybe Fraser hated having to go out and find a stranger to fuck, and the whole thing was sort of an exercise in self-punishment for Fraser.

He thought about that while they were eating lunch (takeout from that Thai place, because Ray liked the noodles, Fraser liked the green curry, and Dief liked the chicken pad thai even though it did bad, bad things to the lupine digestive system), and later while they were watching the Blackhawks embarrass themselves on TSN.

Ray kept picturing Fraser going out to some bar on Halstead, feeling horny and sad, and trying to pick up someone by starting up a conversation about bear scat or thermody-whatsis or something, one of those weird Fraser-topics he loved to talk about. And Ray could picture the guy getting bored and wandering away, or thinking that Fraser was some bona-fide freak, and making fun of Fraser with his buddies later.

Or maybe Fraser wouldn’t have to say anything at all. Given how the guy looked, Fraser’d probably just have to snap his fingers and the men would start lining up.

It was that thought, the thought of Fraser staying silent and not even _talking_ to anybody, that Ray found really depressing. Fraser loved to talk. And yeah, sometimes it was annoying, but Fraser did have a lot of interesting stories, and they always had a point to them. You had to listen for it real carefully sometimes, but Fraser said a lot of important stuff in the stories he told. Stuff about himself, about where he came from. It was _worth_ listening to Fraser, was Ray’s point. And the thought that Fraser probably didn’t need to speak when he went out made Ray so sad that he couldn’t even finish his noodles.

He couldn’t stand it anymore, and Ray finally asked Fraser, “You going out tonight?” He’d interrupted Fraser right in the middle of his story about what, exactly, you do with a caribou tongue, which made Ray feel even worse, but he couldn’t concentrate on what Fraser was saying because he was too busy thinking about Fraser not saying anything at all.

Fraser paused and glanced at Ray, like he couldn’t quite figure out why Ray was asking. “I…was considering it.”

“Because last week you didn’t meet anyone, huh?”

“Yes.” Fraser faced the TV again and stared at it for a few minutes, although Ray was pretty sure that Fraser didn’t even know who was playing. “It’s been…quite a while.”

Ray nodded. He understood that. It’d been three months, six days, and sixteen hours—and thirty-five minutes, give or take—since he’d last gotten laid. And the girl he’d been with had dumped him at the airport in Acapulco forty-eight hours later, so he didn’t exactly count that as a win.

“You ever feel like you’ll go a little crazy from the loneliness?” Ray asked, and then clamped his mouth shut. Jesus. Way to blurt out the first thing that came into his head. “I mean…” he stammered, trying to figure out how to put it. “I mean, it probably does that to everyone, but do you ever think that you need it more than other people?”

Fraser half-turned towards him, torso twisting under his t-shirt. “‘It’?”

“Sex,” Ray said. “Or…companionship. Or whatever.” He waved his hand through the air. “Is that why you’re going out tonight? So you don’t have to go crazy alone?”

Fraser was watching the screen again, and this time Ray was positive that he wasn’t seeing the Hawks skating around in a swarm like a Mites hockey game.

“Perhaps,” he said. “It’s good an explanation as any.”

He stood up and collected his hat, and said, “I would appreciate a lift back to the Consulate, Ray. Dief needs to be walked before I can go out.”

Fraser sounded a little cold as he said it, like he was angry with Ray. Or with himself. But Ray wasn’t sure what Fraser had to be upset about—it was just a question, goddamn it! Ray grabbed his keys and clenched his hand, feeling the sharp metal dig into his palm. Fine. If Fraser wanted to turn glacial on him, he could play that game. Ray knew a thing or two about the big freeze-out—Stella had been a champ at it, getting colder and colder the hotter Ray ran. And really, compared to Stella, Fraser was a lightweight.

They drove back to the Consulate in silence, and Fraser got out of the car without a word. Without even a “Thank you kindly,” which wasn’t like him. He even slammed the door a little. Ray gunned the engine as he pulled away, wondering why it was that you could never put the genie back in the bottle.

***

The phone ran a little after 1am. Ray had just fallen asleep in front of _Sports Night on CSC_ when the loud jangle of the telephone woke him. He stumbled to his feet and then nearly tripped over the rug. He barked his shin on the edge of the coffee table, and by the time he managed to make it to the phone, Ray’s leg was throbbing and he felt so fuzzy-headed that he wasn’t sure he could even remember his own name.

“Yeah?” he said into the receiver. There was a brief silence before he heard a scratchy-sounding, “Ray?”

Jesus. It was Fraser, and he sounded bad. There was a note in his voice that penetrated Ray’s sleep-fogged haze, and made him suddenly feel wide awake as adrenaline coursed through his system.

“Fraser? You okay?”

“Would you come and—” Fraser made a weird, pained-sounding noise, a sharp inhale of breath that made Ray stop breathing, too. “Could you meet me at the corner of North Rockwell and Berteau, by Revere Park? Please?”

“Okay, buddy,” he said quietly, heart pounding. “Hang on. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

Ray had lived in Chicago most of his life. He’d learned to drive on its freeways and side streets. He knew Michigan Avenue like the back of his hand. Chicago was _his_. And still it took him almost twenty minutes to reach the intersection Fraser had named.

He drove the whole distance with his heart in his throat and the pedal to the floor.

Berteau and Rockwell was an industrial area, a part of Chicago that’d fallen victim to Reaganomics back in the ’80s and never quite recovered. It was full of condemned warehouses and vast empty parking lots. In his days as a patrolman, Ray’d chased a lot of kids out of the area for spraypainting gang tags on the empty buildings, or parking with their girlfriends on the deserted loading docks. The place gave Ray the creeps.

He looked around for Fraser, but caught no sight of the Stetson. There was just the empty lot, a crumbling warehouse, and the chilly March wind.

“Ray,” said a voice, and Ray nearly jumped out of his skin. He’d almost missed Fraser, who’d been standing in the deep shadows cast by the warehouse. He was upright and breathing, which instantly made Ray feel better. Half of the horrible images that’d been flashing through his mind on the drive over—Fraser bleeding out, Fraser taken hostage by some of Warfield’s cronies bent on revenge, Fraser dying on the dirty pavement next to a payphone—were eased immediately, and Ray used the two seconds it took him to jog over to Fraser to flush the rest. Whatever had happened, Fraser was okay. Alive. That was something.

Or so he thought, until he saw the bruises on Fraser’s face.

“Shit,” he hissed as Fraser stepped into the light. A black eye, bruises, and a swollen lip marred his face. Fraser was moving real slow and careful, too, like every part of him hurt.

“Thanks for coming.” He was wheezing a little, and Ray wondered if Fraser was just winded from the pain, or if he had a couple of broken ribs. “I appreciate it.”

“What the hell happened?” Ray barked, fear making the question sound much louder and harsher than he’d intended. Fraser closed his eyes briefly, and he looked like he was going to fall over.

“I was mugged,” he said, pressing a hand to his side. “He took my wallet and…and my hat.”

“Your hat?” Ray was a little shocked. “Why the hell would he—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Fraser said tiredly. “My key was in the headband. I wouldn’t have called you, except…”

“Except you got no way to get back into the Consulate,” Ray finished for him. “C’mon. Let’s get you to County General.”

Fraser stiffened as Ray moved forward to slip under his arm. It looked like it was costing Fraser everything he had to hold himself up, but he jerked when Ray tried to get him to sling his arm over Ray’s shoulders so he could help him over to the car.

“I don’t want to go to hospital,” Fraser said quietly. “Please. Can’t you take me back to the Consulate?”

Ray weighed their options. Fraser was hurt, and bad. It looked like he’d gotten kicked around, and he could have a concussion or some kind of internal injury. He knew how much Fraser hated hospitals—Fraser had told Ray once that he’d lost three months to a hospital, and never wanted to go back to one if he could help it—but no way was Ray going to take him back to an empty office building. What if Fraser went into shock?

“Will you come back to my place?” Ray asked as gently as he could, fighting his own sense of panic. Fraser was _hurt_. What the hell had happened? “I’ll get you fixed up there. But you can’t go back alone to the Consulate. It’s my place, or County General. Take your pick.”

Fraser met his eyes—Jesus, that was going to be some shiner—and then dropped his head forward. “All right.”

Ray nodded and worked himself under Fraser’s arm so they could do a painful half-shuffle, half-carry thing back to the car. Fraser was breathing real heavy, and the sound was loud in Ray’s ear. He could feel the way Fraser’s body was still trembling against his. From the aftermath of the beating, Ray guessed.

“What happened? How’d he hurt you so bad?”

“Please,” Fraser wheezed. “Let’s just get to the car.”

Ray got Fraser situated in the passenger seat and cast a worried glance at him once he slid behind the wheel. Fraser was sitting with his head tilted back, eyes closed, and a little line of pain had formed between his brows. His mouth was white and tight.

“You sure you don’t need a doctor?”

“I’ll be fine,” Fraser said through gritted teeth. “Let’s just get off the street.”

Ray frowned. Damn stubborn Mountie. He gunned the engine, and turned them toward home.

***

Fraser refused to say anything more about what had happened. He was silent the whole way back to Ray’s place, and mute as they climbed the stairs (although he did gasp a couple of times and sucked in a few big, deep breaths) and dumb as a fucking post while Ray unlocked the door and guided him over to the couch. Fraser flopped down right away, almost yelping as he hit the couch, and Ray was at his side in a second.

“You got a broken rib, or something?” He ran his hands over Fraser’s sides, checking for the telltale give in his ribcage. Fraser’s skin was warm through his flannel shirt, and Ray was relieved to discover that Fraser felt pretty solid. So why the gasping? Why Fraser’s pale, tense face?

“Fraser?”

“It’s my back,” Fraser muttered, sagging a little against the couch cushions in relief. “I think I threw out my back when he—”

Ray was on that in a second. “When he what?”

“When he kicked me,” Fraser said, and he sounded a little ashamed. “In the, ah, genitals. He caught me by surprise, and when I doubled over…”

Ray winced. “Dirty fighter, huh?”

“Apparently.” Fraser’s voice was dark. He looked like shit. He had a big cut on his cheek and his left eye was quickly swelling shut. Ray jumped up to grab supplies, but he couldn’t help brushing a hand through Fraser’s hair. He told himself he was feeling for lumps, and not doing it because he wanted to reassure himself that Fraser was still in one piece.

“I’ll get some ice for your face,” he said quietly, a little shocked when Fraser, rather than pull away, leaned into his touch as Ray gently rubbed his scalp. “And maybe a hot pack for your back, or at least some Icy-Hot. Aspirin, too. Or maybe,” he thought carefully. “Maybe I still got some T-3 stashed away, from that time I fell through the skylight.”

Odd, the way a sentence like that had started to sound almost normal since he’d become Fraser’s partner.

“Thank you, Ray,” Fraser said, and his voice sounded a little less panicked, a little less pained, as Ray continued to rub his scalp. They stood like that for a minute, and Ray buried his fingers in Fraser’s soft, dark hair and closed his eyes, cataloguing the shape of Fraser’s skull, the heavy weight and solidity of it, and the way his hair felt like silk threads against Ray’s fingers.

When Ray finally stepped away, he felt weirdly reluctant to let go. Fraser closed his eyes and turned his head away. Without another word, Ray left to grab the first aid kit and track down the supplies.

Ray insisted on checking Fraser over pretty thoroughly before putting a butterfly bandage over the cut on his cheek. He didn’t find any evidence of broken bones, and it looked like Fraser was right: the guy had kicked him around and punched him in the face a couple of times, but it was clear that the real source of Fraser’s pain was his back.

“Let’s get your shirt off,” Ray said, and Fraser hesitated for just a second before he nodded and started to unbutton his shirt. Ray sighed and shook his head; Fraser couldn’t even manage the first few buttons without going chalk-white and breaking out into a sweat.

“Just relax, okay?” Ray said, unbuttoning the flannel quickly and gently easing Fraser’s arms out of the shirt and setting it aside. Fraser nodded and took a deep breath. It made his ribcage expand, and for a second Ray was a little stunned by how _pretty_ Fraser was. That wasn’t a word he usually associated with a guy, but Fraser really was a walking, talking, breathing posterboy for clean living and eating your Brussels sprouts: his torso was pretty much perfect. His pecs were well-muscled without being all bulgy and gross-looking like the weightlifters on TV. His skin was pale, yeah, but creamy-looking and soft. He didn’t have a lot of body hair, which surprised Ray, and his nipples were pink and…wow. Responsive. He watched Fraser’s nipples harden (probably from the cold, although Ray supposed it could have been because Ray was staring at him) until Fraser gave an awkward-sounding cough.

“Uh, Ray? My back?”

“Right,” Ray said, shaking his head. He wasn’t sure what the hell was wrong with him tonight. Ogling a friend after he’d been beaten up and mugged was definitely not buddies.

“Can you turn over and lie down? This stuff works better when the muscles are relaxed.”

Fraser nodded and turned over slowly, and then lay down on his belly. Ray grabbed a pillow from the end of the futon—Fraser needed to have something under his belly to give his back a little extra support—and scanned Fraser’s broad, bare shoulders and the strong curve of his spine, and—

“Oh,” he said, and fought a sudden shiver. There was an ugly-looking mass of scar tissue just above the waistband of Fraser’s jeans, nestled right in close to his spine. The scar was about the size of a dollar coin. He reached out without thinking, and brushed his fingers over the old scar. Fraser shivered a little, but otherwise didn’t move.

“Is this—”

“Ray, the Icy Hot?”

Fraser’s voice was hard, much too hard, probably from the pain. Ray shook himself and remembered the pillow.

“Hey, can you ease up off the couch a little? Need a pillow under you,” he said, surprised by how low his own voice sounded. Fraser nodded and raised himself up on his elbows, sweating with the effort. Ray quickly shoved the pillow under his belly, ignoring the warmth of Fraser’s skin as Ray’s knuckles grazed his stomach, or the way Fraser’s position—ass in the air, pillow propping him up—made it look like he was getting ready to fuck Fraser.

Ray blushed hotly and tore open the foil packet. He pressed the slightly damp stickypad down over the scar, and instantly felt a little better the second the scar was covered up. He didn’t think he was imagining the fact that Fraser seemed a little more relaxed, too.

“You’ll tell me about that someday, okay?” Ray asked, and was relieved when Fraser nodded.

He left Fraser lying there as he tidied up and put the first aid kit away. After a couple of minutes spent digging around in his medicine cabinet, he could find no trace of the T3, and the only aspirin he had was expired.

“Hey, Frase, I’m gonna run out and grab some pain meds and some other stuff,” he explained to the prone figure on the couch. “Think you’ll be okay while I’m out?”

“Yes, of course,” came the muffled-sounding reply. Fraser sounded a little drowsy now, and Ray figured that the Icy Hot was probably working its magic.

“I could,” he hesitated, knocking his fist against the doorway leading into the bathroom. “I could swing by the Consulate and grab the wolf and your spare key, and get you something comfortable to sleep in.”

“Hmmm,” Fraser said, sounding almost dead to the world already. Ray grinned. Not every day Fraser surrendered so easily.

“Okay, I’ll be back in twenty.”

***


	4. Swimming with Sharks (pt. 4)

***

Ray had never been real wild about Canada. Sure, the actual country was probably pretty nice (he’d only been across the border once, to Windsor, and it’d been a lot like the United States, except with a lot of malls and a lot more Americans) but the part of Canada that was in the Consulate gave him the heebie-jeebies. Maybe it was the dark wood paneling, or the stiff, unsmiling portraits of the Queen, but setting foot inside the Consulate always made Ray feel like he was being buried alive.

He padded through the silent hallways after using his trusty Am-Ex key, and reached Fraser’s office quickly. When he cracked open the door, a faint yip of recognition reverberated out of the gloomy darkness.

“Heya, Dief,” he said, kneeling down to ruffle the wolf’s fur. The Dief jammed his snout into Ray’s palm, and licked him once in greeting

“Yeah, Furball, I’m glad to see you too,” he said, scratching Dief’s ear before flicking the light switch on. The bare overhead bulb made him blink. He hadn’t been in Fraser’s office after regular business hours in months, and he’d forgotten how cramped and crowded it seemed at night. During the day Fraser kept his cot folded up in the closet, but at night he hauled it out and set it up. Fraser had to push his heavy oak desk aside to do it, and Ray wondered why the hell the guy insisted on packing away his bedroom every single morning when there were plenty of good—and cheap—apartments for rent in Chicago.

Fraser’s cot was already set up for the night, and Ray stopped in front of it, trying to figure out what the hell was going on inside Fraser’s head. The cot looked bare and sad in the harsh overhead light. It was pushed against the wall and made up with a thin, scratchy wool blanket and a single pillow.

It struck Ray, suddenly, that Fraser was probably the loneliest guy he knew. That cot wasn’t just the bed of a single guy who didn’t have a place of his own: that was the bed of a guy who’d slept alone his entire life. The bed of a guy who never expected that to change. _Ever_.

The thought gnawed at him as he packed up a few of Fraser’s measly possessions—a change of clothes, his shaving kit, pajamas in the form of those dopey red longjohns Fraser liked so much—and shoved it all into a leather satchel Fraser sometimes took with him when they had to be out all night on a stakeout.

He made sure he’d grabbed everything, and paused for an instant, looking back at the silent office. It was a horrible way to live, no matter how you looked at it. Ray shook his head and switched off the light.

As he shut and locked the door, Ray made himself a promise. He wasn’t going to let Fraser do this to himself any more. No matter what, something had to change.

***

Fraser was asleep when Ray and Dief got back, although he stirred when Ray sat down beside him and nudged his shoulder, and Dief gave him an experimental sniff before going to lie down by the radiator.

Fraser’s hair was wet, and it looked like Fraser’d taken a shower to help ease some of his aches and pains. Crazy Mountie. What if his back had gone out again and he’d fallen in the shower?

“Frase, you are not sleeping on the couch. It’s bad for your back,” he whispered, and then rattled the travel-sized bottle of Advil he’d picked up on the way back from the Consulate. “C’mon, let’s get you some pain meds, and you can change into something more comfortable.”

“Hmmm?” Fraser mumbled, coming awake slowly. He blinked at Ray a few times, until he figured out where he was. “What time is it?”

“Just a little past 3am,” Ray told him, helping Fraser get to his feet. “I brought you your jammies. C’mon.”

Fraser was moving like an little old man. He shuffled over to Ray’s bedroom door, his whole body stiff with pain. “Thank you, Ray,” he said, and Ray followed him.

Ray’d put the leather satchel on his bed, and he unpacked it quickly, taking out the longjohns and laying them out on the dresser so Fraser wouldn’t have to bend down to grab them.

“You’ll need help putting those on,” Ray said, opening the Advil and pulling out the cotton batting inside before shaking two of the little brown pills out into his palm. He took one look at Fraser, whose face was still white with pain, and added a third pill.

“Here, take these,” Ray directed, handing Fraser the pills and grabbing a glass of water from the bathroom. Fraser swallowed the Advil down, and then Ray set to work unbuttoning his jeans.

“The Icy Hot help?” he asked, trying to ignore the way Fraser’s presence was making his fingers feel thick and fumbly. Jesus, Fraser’s jeans were tight. He had to press against Fraser’s smooth, soft belly a little to get the top button undone.

“Yes,” Fraser said, and his voice sounded like Ray’s fingers felt: thick and clumsy. “I’m feeling much better now, thank you.”

“Yeah,” Ray said, mentally rolling his eyes. Fraser’s next line would probably be something like, ‘Ray, my friend, I’m feeling so good that I ought to return to the Consulate, as the prodigal lemming returns to its snow burrow. Thank you kindly.’

He was gearing up to argue with Fraser, but Fraser simply stayed silent as Ray finally got the damn jeans unzipped. He pushed them down off Fraser’s hips so Fraser wouldn’t have to risk fucking up his back even worse, and let Fraser use him as a support while Fraser kicked off his jeans.

The light in Ray’s bedroom was pretty dim, but even so, Ray could see the bruises on Fraser’s face pretty clearly, as well as the little lines of pain around his eyes and mouth. Fraser was hurting pretty bad, and Ray didn’t think it was just because he’d been beaten up and robbed by the guy he’d been planning to have sex with.

Ray sighed, and finished helping Fraser get into his longjohns. Fraser was pretty much dead on his feet, and Ray was right there with him. It’d be a long night, and they were both exhausted. They could talk in the morning, maybe, when Fraser was feeling better. Right now they both needed to grab some shut-eye.

“Hey, Frase, you mind if I sleep in here? I should keep an eye on you.”

Fraser shook his head woozily, and slowly sank down to the mattress. Ray helped him lie down, and then turned to shimmy out of his own jeans. He didn’t usually sleep in his boxers and a t-shirt, but he didn’t want to freak Fraser out, or give him the wrong idea. Not that Fraser would notice: he was already fast asleep.

And despite how stupidly Fraser had acted tonight, Ray found he couldn’t stay mad at him. Not when Fraser was asleep like that, peaceful and innocent-looking. Ray clicked off the light, and finally surrendered to sleep.

***

When Ray woke up on Sunday morning, he wasn’t quite sure where he was at first. There was someone in bed with him, which was unusual enough to make Ray wake up quickly. He sat up, heart pounding, only to remember what had happened the night before.

Fraser. Fraser had slept in his bed, because Fraser had gone out to Berteau and Rockwell with someone he didn’t know, and the guy had beaten him up and mugged him. All because Fraser was…what? Lonely? Horny? He could have been killed, for chrissake!

“Fraser, are you awake?” Ray said, shaking him a little. Fraser grunted, and rolled over onto his back. He woke up slow, blinking hard against the morning sunlight streaming through the living room windows. Ray told himself not to feel guilty for waking the guy up when he obviously needed to sleep. Fraser had to understand how much danger he’d been in last night. He could’ve…he could’ve ended up like Larry Chan, raped and beaten and left to die in some alley off 49th and Wabash.

“Ray?” Fraser asked muzzily, and Ray shook himself. This wasn’t about the Chan case. This was about Fraser, and Fraser’s stupidity in going off somewhere with a strange guy.

“I’m here. You need to pee or anything?” He had to fight to keep his voice level and calm-sounding. He wasn’t totally sure what he was angry about. Fraser getting hurt, maybe. Or the way Fraser chose to live his life, all risky and dangerous and…alone. That was what pissed him off the most. Fraser had _chosen_ to isolate himself. And yeah, Ray could understand why Fraser hadn’t said anything about being queer, but still. He’d shut Ray out and put himself at risk.

Fraser shook his head, and Ray checked his battered face in the light. There were a million things he wanted to ask—and tell—Fraser. Preferably at a high volume, with a lot of, “fucking idiot!”s thrown in. But as he looked at Fraser’s swollen black eye and bruised face, Ray found out that there was only one thing he wanted to say to his friend.

“It’s not worth it.”

Fraser looked at him sharply through his one good eye. “Pardon me?”

Ray swallowed hard on the impulse to yell, but the fear that had settled deep in his gut since he first answered Fraser’s phone call pushed the words out loudly anyway. “The risk, you big dumb Canuk! Picking up strangers. Going out into an industrial no-man’s-land for a quick blowjob.” That coaxed a spark of anger from Fraser, and he opened his mouth to deny it, but Ray cut him off.

“C’mon, Fraser, I know you didn’t walk out to Rockwell by yourself. You went in the guy’s car. Which means you met somewhere else first, and talked about what you were going to do together, and where you were going to do it. He mug you before or after you got off?”

Fraser folded his arms, looking so much like a stubborn little kid that Ray forgot, just for a second, that Fraser never explained himself if he could help it. “He said…he wanted privacy.”

“He just didn’t want anyone around while he tried to rob you,” Ray supplied, and balled his hands into tight fists. He really would kill the bastard when they found him.

“Ray, I’d prefer not to discuss this right now. Can’t it wait?” Fraser still sounded tired, and Ray was ready to give in, at least for now, but he needed to make sure Fraser _got it_.

“Is it worth it?” he asked again, quieter this time but no less insistent. “Is it worth getting yourself killed over?”

Fraser frowned, and reached up to touch his black eye, wincing when his fingers made contact with his skin. _Good_ , Ray thought savagely. Maybe Fraser needed to hurt. Maybe that was the only way he’d understand that he couldn’t trust people. Especially guys who just wanted to fuck him and drop him.

Fraser was silent for so long that Ray wasn’t sure if he was going to say anything at all. But when Fraser did speak, he sounded tired, and sad, and defeated. All the things that Benton Fraser, RCMP, wasn’t supposed to be. “Have you ever heard the expression, ‘The heart asks pleasure first’?”

Ray didn’t answer right away, pretending to consider Fraser’s question carefully even though he knew that it was just Fraser’s way of answering a question by asking another question. “Uh, no.”

“It’s something Emily Dickinson once wrote. _The heart asks pleasure first/And then, excuse from pain/And then, those little anodynes/That deaden suffering_.”

“Oh,” Ray said. _Anodynes?_ One of those tide-pool things, with all the little flowery tentacles? “Uh, so, what’s it mean?”

“It means that if your options are limited, you ask for as little as you think you can get. As little as you deserve. And if you can’t get that, you ask for even less.”

“Jesus. That’s—”

“Yes, well,” Fraser said quickly, easing himself up a little so he could look at Ray. “It is what it is. If you can’t have what you want, you settle for what you can have.” He folded his hands over his chest and closed his good eye, like that was the end of their whole conversation. In the morning light, the bruises on Fraser’s face looked like small shadows, or even ink stains, dark against his pale, smooth skin. Ray had to look away.

“So you going all Mick Jagger on me?”

Fraser furrowed his brows, clearly puzzled. “Y’know, Mick Jagger. You can’t get what you want, so you just try and get what you need? And you’re honestly okay with that?”

Fraser snorted, and then hunched a little, like making that small noise had been painful. Probably had. “I’m not sure that it’s even about need, anymore. It’s just…something I had to do.”

Ray licked his lips, all the decisions of the past few hours rushing in on him, making him feel suddenly nervous and sweaty and totally out of his depth. But this was Fraser, he reminded himself. And Fraser shouldn’t be laid out in Ray’s bed like this, looking like…looking like he was dead. Dead and gone, and talking about how the best he could hope for was a little human warmth. Fraser deserved more. Fraser deserved _everything_.

The image of Fraser’s lonely cot in the Consulate flashed through Ray’s mind, and in that second, Ray knew exactly what he had to do. What he had to say. Before he could give himself time to think about it, he spoke. “What about me?”

Fraser cracked his non-bruised eye open, and then promptly shut it. “What about you?”

“You tried it with a stranger, and it didn’t work.” Which was putting it mildly, but Ray would have plenty of time in the future to inform Fraser exactly how and why he’d been an idiot. “So what about trying it with a friend?”

Fraser had gone absolutely still, so still that Ray wasn’t sure he was even breathing. His eyes were open, but Fraser wasn’t looking at Ray. He was staring up at the ceiling, up at the giant crack that ran across the plaster like a fault line. Ray thought about poking him to make sure that Fraser wasn’t really dead.

“Uh, Frase?” he finally asked, and Fraser seemed to stir himself out of his weird waking coma, or whatever that’d been. He pressed the heel of his hands into his good eye, shutting out the light, shutting out _Ray_. God, why had he made that offer? It was pretty damn clear that Fraser thought the whole suggestion was loony tunes. He was disgusted. He had to be. He wouldn’t even meet Ray’s eyes.

“Why would you do that?” Fraser finally asked, and his voice was rough, like someone had sanded it down with broken glass. Christ, Ray’d really screwed this up.

Ray sat up in bed and put his hand on Fraser’s arm, gently pressing down until Fraser moved his hand away from his eye. Yep. His face was all pink and blotchy where it wasn’t bruised, and it looked like there were tears welling in Fraser’s baby blues. And no wonder—the guy was still exhausted and in a lot of pain.

“Fraser,” Ray murmured, finding the soft flesh of the inside of Fraser’s wrist and stroking, gently, with his thumb. “You’re my best friend in the whole world. And it wouldn’t be buddies of me to let you keep hurting yourself.”

He felt Fraser try to jerk away, but Ray held him still, keeping up with the small, soothing little circles he was making on Fraser’s wrist. Fraser’s skin felt soft and warm. Nice.

“Ray, you don’t know what you’re suggesting,” Fraser was saying. He’d relaxed under Ray’s touch and wasn’t trying to pull away anymore. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t still trying to get away. “I can’t believe you would honestly consider a…a sexual liaison with me.”

Ray raised an eyebrow at the odd little dip in Fraser’s voice, but Fraser seemed pretty determined to finish. He swallowed hard—Ray watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down—and continued. “You have no experience with another man. You don’t know how you’d react. And I would rather die, Ray,” and wow, Fraser was serious, really serious. Deathly serious. “I would rather die than hurt you, or allow this to damage our friendship.”

That made Ray a little angry. Actually, it made him a lot angry. But he didn’t allow it to translate into his touch. He shifted a little on the bed, keeping one hand on Fraser’s wrist, planting the other right beside Fraser’s shoulder until he was hovering over Fraser, who looked up at him with a cold kind of resolve.

The Mountie was a hard nut to crack.

Ray stared back at him, fascinated by the little tendon he could see twitching away in Fraser’s neck. It was right below his jaw, and he could see a few of the whiskers Fraser’d missed while shaving before he’d headed out on the town. And, wow, he could smell Fraser, too. He smelled good. Clean. Like soap and shampoo. He must’ve scrubbed himself down pretty thoroughly in Ray’s shower. Fraser would probably have wanted to wash away what had happened to him tonight.

“You’d really rather die than even try it? What’s that say about you and me? What does that say about _us_ , Fraser?”

Fraser blinked at him. At least he didn’t look like he was going to cry anymore. Fraser was getting angry. And if it weren’t for the bruises and the pain he was in, Fraser’d probably be pushing Ray off the bed and bounding up and running all the way back to Canada. Or at least the Consulate.

“I think it says that I’m being sensible,” Fraser snapped. “Believe me, Ray, I’ve looked at all the possible options, and this did seem like the best course. Immediate evidence aside, I’ll ensure that I’m safe. I’ll be careful. I will choose my partners with a great deal of forethought. I will always use a condom. And I will never allow them to accompany me back to my place of residence.”

He was definitely getting to Fraser. Whenever the Mountie broke out the big vocabulary guns, Ray knew he was making some headway. It was true when they were working a case, and it was true right now.

“Look, I know you can be safe. At least physically.” Ray said quietly. “At least, most of the time.” He looked pointedly Fraser’s black eye. “But safety’s not—” he hesitated, searching for the right word. “But safety’s not the only point here,” he continued, finding it hard to stop cataloguing all the other injuries to Fraser’s face that he’d missed last night. “Maybe…maybe this is something you should only do with someone who cares about you.”

Fraser closed his eyes and finally pulled out of Ray’s loose hold, shielding his eyes. Fraser really was on the ragged edge of it this morning; Ray could practically feel how hard it was for Fraser to control himself.

“You’d really rather make it with a stranger than with me?” Ray said, softly. He touched Fraser’s chest lightly, enjoying the warmth he could feel radiating through Fraser’s longjohns. It’d been a long, long time since Ray had been this close to another human being. Fraser was solid and real beside him, and every breath he took washed over Ray’s face in a warm and slightly Crest-scented puff of air.

Ray licked his lips. Fraser’s mouth was pink and looked soft. Real soft. Not pink and soft like Stella’s, of course, but…soft in an inviting kind of way.

Yeah, he could do this.

“I can do this, Fraser,” Ray said, and Fraser glanced up to meet his eyes. Fraser didn’t really look all that convinced, which just meant that Ray needed to sell him on the idea a little more. And now wasn’t the best time, not with Fraser all sore and banged up.

But maybe he could drop a couple of hints.

“Look,” Ray said, “Can I just…can I just kiss you? So you can see, and I can see, that this could work?”

“Ray.” Fraser’s body had gone stiff beside Ray’s, and not in a good way. He was tense. “You won’t really be proving anything.”

Tense and snippy. That was good. Better than tense and wounded, anyway. Or tense and sad.

“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” Ray said finally. He waited until Fraser had relaxed a little and was looking at him again. Moving slowly and telegraphing his intentions as clearly as he could, Ray eased himself down in tiny increments, until he was just a few inches from Fraser’s face.

“Hey there,” he murmured, and Fraser’s breathing hitched a little. Ray put a hand on Fraser’s face—soft, soft, the guy was so _soft_ , and why was that such a surprise?—and met Fraser’s lips.

The kiss was…good. That was the best word he could think of. _Good_. And _hot_ , because Fraser’s mouth radiated heat. His lips were a little dry and cracked, but after a few seconds Ray didn’t notice because Fraser made a quiet noise and then Fraser’s hands were on Ray’s face, cupping his cheeks, pulling him closer. Fraser’s lips parted under his and suddenly Ray was inside all of that wet, soft heat. Fraser tasted like Ray’s toothpaste, and the small intimacy of that made Ray groan and slide his tongue deeper into Fraser’s mouth.

He liked this. Fraser’s hands felt right, even though they were bigger and stronger than any pair of hands Ray’d ever had on him before. But that was okay. More than okay, actually.

Fraser’s tongue nudged his, wet and hot, and Ray gave himself over to the kiss, meeting Fraser’s with everything he had in him. And Jesus, but Fraser could kiss. Skillful, confident, and like he was dying for it. Like Ray was food and shelter both, and Fraser just had to get inside him.

Ray finally broke away with reluctance, panting hard. He had to breathe. Fraser’s mouth was red now, and swollen, and his hair was all mussed up. He was breathing heavy, panting just like Ray, and still wearing that same stunned look.

“Okay,” Ray said, putting his hand back on Fraser’s chest and trying to collect himself a little. Wow. “Okay, so…I think that pretty much proves that I can do this.”

Fraser huffed a surprised laugh. “I—yes. I suppose so.”

“So you’ll think about it?”

Fraser sighed, and reached up to wipe his thumb across Ray’s lips. And his expression had gentled, like he wasn’t trying to hide anything. He just looked tender, and horny, and a bunch of other things that Ray couldn’t even begin to identify.

“I don’t suppose I have a lot of choice, Ray.”

***

Later in the afternoon, Ray drove Fraser back to the Consulate, and then hit the gym. He warmed up slowly, and spent the rest of the day pounding away at the heavy bag. The burn of exercise in his arms and chest felt good: it cut through his lingering arousal, and helped him focus on the offer he’d just made to his best friend.

Christ. _Try it with me_. Like he and Fraser could just…what? Start fucking like bunnies? What had he just offered to do?

An image of Larry Chan’s face that night in the emergency room floated before him. Larry’d looked a lot like Fraser under the bright flourescents, pale with pain and fear, battered and bruised and hurt in a way that Ray hadn’t been able to understand at the time.

What if he screwed this up? What if he did something wrong, and Fraser shut him out? It wasn’t like Ray knew what he was doing: the offer had just sort of slipped out of him, and while he wanted to protect his partner and keep Fraser from winding up like Larry…well, he wasn’t sure how far he could go with it. The kiss had been nice. Great, actually. But what if Fraser wanted to do more?

The endless roudabout of questions in Ray’s head wore him out faster than the heavy bag, and he finally headed for the showers. Once he was scrubbed clean and dressed, Ray headed for the station. It was a Sunday, sure, but second shift was on and the bullpen was crowded, although slightly quieter because Welsh was off somewhere doing whatever Welsh did on his weekends off. Ray still found himself listening with half an ear for a bellowed, “VECCHIO!” as he gathered up some A4-1 forms and a sketch artist, and headed over to the Consulate.

He’d made some kind of deal with Fraser, maybe, but no way was Ray going to let Fraser talk him out of arresting the son of a bitch who’d beaten him up. They needed to get started on the paperwork so Fraser could make an ID, once Ray talked him into pressing charges.

When Ray and the A4-1s and Tommy the sketch artist got to the Consulate, they went right to Fraser’s office. And jeeze, Fraser looked bad. He was sitting behind his desk in uniform, and he was talking French to some panicked tourist on the phone (“ _Je ne comprends pas, Monsieur. Parlez plus lentement, s’il vous plaît._ ”) Apparently the Consulate worked weekends, too, just like Major Crimes. But Fraser looked totally exhausted. Like he hadn’t slept a wink all night, even though Ray knew for a fact that he had. And the bruises looked even worse in the bright daylight than they had in Ray’s half-shadowed bedroom that morning. Fraser’s right eye was a mess, all puffy and blue-black, and the cut on his cheek had just started to scab over, leaving behind a reddish-pink mark that looked a lot like a jagged crater. Ray couldn’t stop looking at the cut, and he felt himself getting scared for Fraser all over again.

No matter what, he wasn’t going to let the Mountie do anything stupid. Stupider, anyway. And he’d really _liked_ kissing Fraser. A lot. So he’d be getting something out of their deal, too. Kissing, coming, maybe some cuddling if he could talk Fraser into it. It’d be okay. Fraser would be safe, at least.

“Heya,” Ray said the second Fraser was finished with his _merci_ s and his _au revoir_ s. “You remember Tommy, right?”

“Certainly, Ray.” Fraser nodded politely at the sketch artist, and then gave Ray one of those dumb-innocent looks that Ray really hated. “Has some crime been committed? Or is Mr. Douglas here because he wants to learn more about Canada?”

Fraser was on his game today, no question. Fraser’s jaw was tensed and he wasn’t smiling. In fact, he looked kind of pissed. He was going to fight Ray every step of the way on this one. Which was fine by Ray. _Bring it on_ , he thought, and felt his own jaw tighten.

“Tommy’s here to do a sketch,” Ray explained, propping one hip up on Fraser’s desk. He made sure to sit on what looked to be a particularly important pile of paperwork. Or at least, he hoped it was important. It was sometimes tough to tell in Canada.

Fraser waved him off immediately, and Ray lifted his hip so Fraser could move the little pile of papers marked “Stationary Requisition Form” to a safer corner of his desk. The back of Fraser’s hand grazed Ray’s ass a little, which made Ray jump, and caused Fraser to flush and do a weird little half-step around his desk, like he needed to put the heavy oak barrier between himself and Ray.

All of which Ray took as a good sign. He had Fraser on the ropes. A couple more jabs, some light bodywork, and it’d be a TKO.

“Tommy’s going to do a sketch of the guy who mugged you, Frase,” Ray explained, meeting Fraser’s wide, shocked-looking eyes.

“Ray, I can’t—”

“Hey Tommy,” Ray said, without looking away from the staring contest he and Fraser had started. “Go check out the banister in the hallway, okay? It’s solid oak.”

“Oooh, oak,” Tommy said, and then the door clicked shut behind him.

Ray and Fraser were suddenly alone. Alone-alone. A telephone was ringing in Thatcher’s office, and a dog barked on the street outside, but in Fraser’s office it was as quiet as a bar on Sunday morning. Fraser was still staring at him, like he could make Ray change his mind, or make Tommy disappear if he wanted it bad enough. But the world just didn’t work like that, not even for Benton Fraser.

“You know you gotta make an ID,” Ray said patiently, folding his arms over his chest. “The guy you were with last night committed a crime, Fraser! And he’ll probably do it again. The next guy he picks up might not be as good a fighter as you. Someone could get really hurt. So you got no choice.” He waited for Fraser to react, to say something, but Fraser just kept staring at him with that half-pissed, half-shocked look on his face. Ray bowed his head.

“Look, I wish there was a better option. You’re probably worried about how this is going to look, and I know…I know that making a report about what happened might raise some eyebrows, but you could always…” Ray stumbled, stuck. Always what? Fraser wouldn’t dissemble, or even fudge the details in his report. He’d tell the entire Chicago PD and every last Mountie in Canada that he was gay before he’d lie on a police report. And what kind of a life could Fraser have then? Ray knew the score, and he knew that queer cops weren’t exactly given high profile assignments like liasing with American police. It’d be the end of their partnership. And maybe Fraser’s career.

Fraser frowned and stared down at the carpet, like studying industrial berber was his brand new hobby. “It’s not that,” he said quietly. “It was dark.” He flushed a little. “And I wasn’t in a very good position to see the man’s face.”

But Ray didn’t buy it. He knew Fraser, and he couldn’t believe Fraser would suck a guy off without looking at his _face_. And if it was true, things were worse for Fraser than Ray’d thought.

“How come you’re protecting this asshole?” Ray asked, angry now. He balled up his fists and felt frustration surge through him, followed by a horrible suspicion. “Was he someone you know?”

Fraser went a little pale, face snow-white except for two bright red spots of anger on his cheeks.

Bingo.

Ray thumped his fist against the wall. “He a diplomat? Some big high-up muckity-muck in Canada? Minister of Moose Relations, or something?”

“No, Ray,” Fraser said, speaking so softly that Ray had to lean forward to hear him. “He’s no one important. And I don’t know him. As I said, I barely even saw his face. I wouldn’t be able to make an ID.”

Fraser looked ashamed, suddenly, and Ray didn’t think he was lying, but it was also pretty clear that Fraser wasn’t telling the truth. Ray had seen Fraser identify a bad guy by smell alone. If he really wanted to find the person who’d beaten him up and mugged him, Fraser would’ve done it. This…this reluctance wasn’t because Fraser was scared of being outed, or because he was knew the guy and wanted to protect him. It something else, something Ray couldn’t get a handle on.

Fraser wasn’t looking at him, and Ray sighed. He wasn’t going to get anywhere arguing with Fraser. At least, not right now. Ray was going to have to have to figure out some other way of finding the mugger if Fraser really couldn’t—or wouldn’t—make an ID.

“Okay,” he said reluctantly, promising himself that he’d continue to investigate on his own. “I’ll send Tommy home.”

The relief in Fraser’s eyes was enough to halfway convince Ray that he’d done the right thing. His partner had lost that whipped-dog look, and even seemed halfway back to his old self.

Apart from the bruises, of course.

“You want to go grab some lunch?” Ray asked, and Fraser looked tempted before he licked his lips and glanced guiltily at his office phone.

“I should work through lunch, actually. I’ve been getting a lot of emergency calls about travel visas today. I’m sorry.”

Ray sighed. It seemed like Fraser was apologizing for an awful lot, lately.

“Okay,” Ray said, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Look, why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night? I’ll cook.”

“You’ll…cook?” Fraser looked a little disturbed by the idea.

“Yeah, I can cook!” he said, showing Fraser his teeth. “Come over around seven,” Ray said, liking the little blush that stole over Fraser’s face. Any other guy would’ve probably said, “Oooh, is this a date?” Which it was, sorta, if you could date the guy who was your best friend and who you had sort of—maybe—offered to be fuckbuddies with.

But Fraser didn’t make any dumb jokes or ask stupid questions. He just blushed a soft, sweet blush, and licked his lips, and said, “That sounds fine, Ray. Thank you.”

Ray dragged his attention from the pink flash of Fraser’s tongue and nodded.

“ _Mañana_ , buddy,” he said.

“ _Mañana_ ,” Fraser murmured, just as Ray shut the office door.

***

He was a little jittery the next day. The early shift on Monday was pretty slow as a general rule, what with everybody in Chicago resting up after unleashing hell on the weekend. By 5pm the bullpen would probably be hopping, but during the morning and afternoon Ray had time to made a couple phone calls, and by the end of the day he had a few solid leads on Fraser’s mystery date-slash-mugger.

At 5pm on the dot he was in the GTO and headed to that one froofy supermarket where they sold rice out of barrels and advertised yoga classes on the bulletin boards by the entrance. He picked up groceries for dinner and got some of that funny-smelling twig tea Fraser liked. Feeling a little reckless (or maybe optimistic) he bought some candles, too, and a couple of little jars to hold them in. _Might as well go all out_ , he thought.

Not that this was a date. This was two lonely guys having dinner together, and maybe—maybe—having sex after, so Fraser wouldn’t go out and have sex with some stranger who would hurt him.

And that was only if Fraser felt up to it. He’d looked bad yesterday, what with all the bruises and that sad, resigned look making him look like a clock whose batteries were dying. But Ray figured that Fraser just needed to feel good for a night, to recharge his batteries a little. Be with someone who at least cared about him, and who wouldn’t steal from him or beat him up or use him for sex.

Ray was okay with being that guy. Part of him worried what, exactly, Fraser would want to do with him. To him. The thought stopped him cold right in the middle of the produce section, and Ray had to hang on to the carrot bin for a second until he got his bearings.

Would Fraser want to fuck him? Ray had liked the kissing, but when he thought about what two guys did together, or at least what he thought they did together, it didn’t really hold a lot of appeal. Blowjobs, well, he liked getting them, but giving one? Ray wasn’t too sure he’d be on board with that.

And the other thing? The anal-sex thing? Scared him shitless, no pun intended. That would have to hurt, wouldn’t it? He’d seen enough working the Chan case and others like it to know how something like that could tear a person up inside.

But it was _Fraser_ , he reminded himself. Fraser would never, ever hurt him. And he’d never do anything that Ray didn’t want to do. He pushed, yeah—Fraser always pushed—but not about stuff that he wanted for himself. Which was part of the problem, maybe.

But Ray knew that if he said, “Sorry, buddy, I’m not gonna be your butt boy,” Fraser’d understand.

So it would be fine.

“It’ll be fine,” Ray told his reflection in the mirror above the broccoli display. “This’ll be fine.”

***

He cooked a good meal—baked chicken parmigiana, a fancy spinach salad with berries and nuts in it, and fresh French bread—and Fraser showed up at 7pm, Dief hard on his heels. The wolf sniffed at Ray curiously and sat back on his haunches, looking at Ray expectantly. Ray gestured them both inside, and laughed.

“Fraser, I think Dief expects some kind of floor show.”

Fraser smiled a little. “I’m quite sure he has no expectations whatsoever.”

Ray just shrugged, and took Fraser’s leather jacket.

Fraser was wearing pretty much what he’d worn in the club: jeans, a blue flannel shirt, and hiking boots. _Fraser’s date clothes_ , Ray realized. And wow, did it work for him. Fraser looked good. The black eye was looking a little less purple, and the cut on his cheek had pretty much healed closed. He must’ve used some of that pregnant seal mucus stuff, Ray thought. That, or Fraser had super healing powers. His eyes were bright and his skin glowed, either from the walk over from the Consulate, or nervousness, or both, Ray couldn’t tell. He just knew that Fraser looked…handsome. Sexy, too, which was sort of a surprising thought. Even more surprising was the realization that he’d noticed that about Fraser before. Once you got the guy out of the Mountie suit, and riled him up enough to act like a real person, Fraser actually was kind of sexy.

Ray wondered for the first time what he looked like to Fraser. Fraser had kissed him the other day without a lot of complaints, but then Fraser was pretty hard-up. He trusted Ray, and liked him, and that was probably more than he’d been able to say about anyone he’d slept in with in a long, long time. So maybe it wasn’t so important to Fraser that he actually be attracted to Ray.

After all, Ray knew he wasn’t exactly a prize catch. He was skinny and had weird hair (even though it was pretty awesome weird hair) and he wasn’t all that young anymore. Still, he cleaned up good. He’d put on a pair of jeans so dark that they could almost pass for dress pants, and a tight black t-shirt that showed off his arms and made him look a little dangerous. And danger, he figured, worked for Fraser.

“Hey, make yourself at home,” Ray said, realizing that they were just standing around in the hallway, staring at each other. Except for Dief, who was nosing around in the kitchen, probably trying to figure out what smelled so good.

Fraser nodded at him and went to sit down on the couch. He kept his spine ramrod-straight and he perched on the very edge of the cushion, like he was trying to earn some kind of certificate for good posture. He folded his hands in his lap and watched as Ray bounced around the kitchen. Ray checked the oven and hauled out a couple of glasses, trying not to feel nervous about Fraser watching him so closely.

“I got you some tea,” he said, wondering if he sounded a little too eager to please. “Or you can have water. Or milk.”

“Milk would be lovely, thank you.”

Ray smiled like that, and felt a queer, desperate surge of affection for Fraser. Milk, for Chrissake. That wasn’t the drink of a guy who wanted to make Ray his assboy.

The oven timer dinged just as Ray was handing a tall, cool glass of milk over to Fraser. At the sharp _ding_ Ray jumped, and a tiny bit of milk sloshed over the side of the glass just as their fingers brushed. “Sorry,” Ray said.

He turned away to deal with the oven, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Fraser lick the droplet of milk off the rim of the glass before it could hit the hardwood floor. Ray blinked, trying hard not to think of Fraser’s agile tongue darting out to lick at…other things. He shook his head to clear it a little, and went to finish dinner.

“Dinner’s up,” he said a few minutes later, and plated the chicken and salad. He put the plates, as well as napkins and utensils, on the dining table right next to the turtle tank. Gus looked up, sleepy-eyed and munching on a wilted piece of lettuce, and even he looked a little impressed at Ray’s ability to throw a meal together. Or maybe he was just startled; Ray hadn’t used his dining table in nearly two years. Usually it was covered with stacks of old magazines and bills, but Ray figured…well, even though this wasn’t a date, he might as well make a good impression on the guy he wasn’t dating.

Fraser wandered over and stood awkwardly next to one of the steaming plates of food. Ray couldn’t remember ever seeing him look so uncertain, and he was just about to make a joke about the sudden reappearance of his household skills when Fraser said, “This looks lovely, Ray. Thank you. But you didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

That made Ray frown a little, and he dropped into the chair across from Fraser’s. Fraser sat down, too, and reached out to unfold his napkin. Which was actually a paper towel, because Ray had his limits.

“No trouble,” Ray said, wincing a little at how defensive he sounded. “We’ve had dinner before. Lots of times.”

“But we usually eat in front of the TV.”

Ray glanced up, a little surprised. That was actually bordering on rude, which wasn’t like Fraser at all.

“Uh, yeah,” Ray told him, shifting a little uncomfortably. “I got a table. Chairs, too. And candles,” he said, waving his hand towards the flickering beeswax candles placed next to the breadbasket. “All kinds of stuff.”

“But you don’t entertain often,” Fraser supplied, and Ray squinted at him. Where was the Fraser going with all of this?

“Nope,” Ray said, and tore savagely at a piece of bread.

“Why not?”

Ray glanced up. Fraser was watching Ray carefully, like he was an interesting species of moss. Or moose poop. He shrugged, and stuffed the bread into his mouth. “Dunno. I haven’t really got a lot of friends, I guess. Stella got most of them in the divorce.”

“Ah,” Fraser said. Ray hated it when he did that. But he picked up his fork and began to chew thoughtfully. Ray kept sneaking looks at Fraser’s face to see if the chicken’d turned out okay—it’d been a while since he’d had anyone to cook for—but Fraser’s face was tough to read. He still looked like something was bothering him.

***


	5. Chapter 5

***

They’d finished their salads and made a little smalltalk before Fraser finally figured out what he wanted to say. At least, that was Ray’s theory. Maybe Fraser had just been waiting for the right opportunity.

“Ray, is this something you’d do for a friend? Because it seems as though you’ve put a great deal of thought and effort into dinner tonight.”

Ray felt the tips of his ears start to burn. Fuck. Fuck, he knew this was a mistake. Just because he and Fraser had agreed on…whatever, the other night, it didn’t mean that Fraser actually wanted it to be more than just a sex thing. Ray wasn’t sure if _he_ wanted it to be more than a sex thing. In fact, he knew that he didn’t. He just wanted a friend thing. A nice, friendly sex thing.

“Sometimes it’s just good. To do stuff. Like this,” he blurted out, and then, when Fraser cocked his head, listening intently, he carried on. “Make dinner for someone. When we didn’t have a lot of money, back when I was pulling a patrol and Stella was still in law school, I did this for her, sometimes.” He ran his finger over the tip of his ear. Yep. Definitely hot. “It made us both feel a little less miserable, I guess. It was…” and he heaved a huge sigh. “Different. From eating in front of the TV every night, I mean. Sometimes it’s good just to go to a little extra effort.”

When he looked up, he could see that Fraser’s face had softened. He’d seemed a little cold before, a little critical, but Ray’s explanation seemed to relax him. He picked up his knife and fork again, and actually seemed to be enjoying the chicken. Which made Ray relax, too.

“I agree,” Fraser said after he’d carefully chewed and swallowed his food. “About the importance of making an effort.”

Ray tried out a small smile. “Yeah. I thought you would.”

Fraser took a sip of milk and wiped his lips with the napkin—he really did have good table manners—and then said, “I just didn’t want you to think that you had to…what’s the expression? ‘Wine and dine’ me.”

That stopped Ray cold. He’d just swallowed a big bite of his own, and the chicken parmesan, all cheesy, tomato-y, chicken-y goodness, got stuck in his throat and made him cough a little. “‘Wine and dine you’?” he sputtered. “What, like this is some kind of…seduction?”

“Well, I thought—”

“You thought that because I…because I offered to be a warm body for you, that I’d have to seduce you into it?”

“Not ‘have to,’” Fraser said quickly, setting his fork down. He looked a little panicked, like he was worried he’d really offended Ray. “Just that you’d want to. Because you’re a romantic.”

A romantic? Ray felt a little rocked by that. He checked Fraser’s face, but it didn’t look like Fraser was making fun of him. In fact, Fraser looked pretty damn serious. And worried, like he expected Ray to jump up and call the whole thing off.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” Fraser said, and his voice had a weird, high note to it. He took a quick sip of milk and spoke again. “No, no, it’s not a bad thing at all. It’s a very good thing. I just wanted you to know that it’s not necessary.” He frowned and looked down at his plate. “I’m…I’m a ‘sure thing’, Ray.”

Man. Fraser even used the little air-quote gesture when he said that, and even then it took Ray a second to work through that idea. Usually did, when it came to Fraser.

“So you’re saying that you don’t really need me to make you dinner, or wear a nice shirt, or change the sheets, huh? You’ll sleep with me no matter what I do, because you’re that desperate. That’s—” He drew in a long, slow breath. “That’s really fucking sad, Fraser. And I’m not sure who I feel worse for: you, or me.”

At least Fraser had the grace to look a little ashamed of himself. He looked down at his lap, an intense frown on his face. “Ray,” Fraser said quietly. “I’m not saying I don’t appreciate this. I do. Very much,” and his voice dropped a little, going deep and soft. “And I find it…admirable, that you would go to all this trouble. But our,” he seemed to stumble over the word, and Ray thought, viciously, _good_. “But our arrangement doesn’t seem to include…this.”

“Hey, I don’t remember signing a contract. We can add stuff if we want, okay?” He folded his arms across his chest, and put on his best scowl. “And maybe I want dinner. Maybe I want to go out dancing with you. I haven’t done anything like this before,” he admitted, watching Fraser’s face, “but I don’t want to just…fuck, or whatever, and pretend like we don’t care about each other.”

A strange look passed over Fraser’s face. It almost looked like regret, or disappointment, but that didn’t make any sense. Because this had to be a pretty good deal for Fraser, or at least Ray thought so.

But maybe he just wanted sex. Maybe, for Fraser, sex was something you did only with people you _didn’t_ care about.

“That a problem?” Ray asked, and Fraser closed his eyes. The strange look was gone by the time he glanced at Ray again.

“No,” he said, quietly. His voice sounded a little shaky. “I would be more than happy to do…more.”

“Good,” Ray said. “So we can do all the stuff we did before. Dinners. Movies. And sometimes it’ll be us being buddies, and sometimes it’ll be us, uh...” He didn’t want to say ‘dating’ because that wasn’t what this was. Not really. “Staying in. That okay?”

Fraser nodded. “That sounds fine.” He still looked unhappy, though.

They’d both finished their dinner, and Ray got up to put the dishes into the sink to soak. Fraser had made some noises about doing the washing up, but Ray had nixed that idea right away.

“You’re a guest tonight,” Ray said. “Go into the living room and act guest-like,” he suggested. “I’ll do the dishes tomorrow. We’ve got to be in court for the North Shore thing late in the afternoon, so it’s not like we have to rush out of here tomorrow. And Dief’s here, so you won’t need to go back to the Consulate.”

“Yes,” Fraser said, and Ray suddenly realized how close they were standing, and how warm Fraser’s body was. They were both crowded together in his little kitchen, and Ray felt his heart start to beat a little faster.

“Uh, Fraser, you think you’d be up to a little more of that kissing stuff we did the other night?” He rubbed the back of his head. “Because I don’t want to be pushy or anything, but I thought we could—mmmph.”

Fraser, apparently, didn’t believe in looking a gift horse in the mouth. He kissed Ray deeply, slipping his tongue into his mouth and letting Ray lean into him. Fraser tasted like tomato sauce and salad dressing, plus something else, some musky flavour that was uniquely his own. Ray sighed and wrapped his arms around Fraser’s neck, kissing him back just as hungrily.

Fraser made some happy little noise and then broke away, panting. Ray grinned at him.

“Yeah. Like that,” he said, and Fraser laughed, kissing his cheek with what felt more like affection than desire. Ray ruffled his hair, and then stepped out of Fraser’s arms to take his hand. The laughter faded from Fraser’s eyes and Ray swallowed, his stomach doing a quick backflip. This was really going to happen. He and Fraser were going to sleep together.

And just as the weird, nervous panic of that thought started to buzz through Ray’s body, Fraser squeezed Ray’s hand and lifted it to his mouth. His soft lips grazed the back of Ray’s knuckles, and Ray’s knees went a little wobbly at the look on Fraser’s face. Fraser had squeezed his eyes shut, totally focused on what he was doing. It almost looked like Fraser was praying, although for what—or to what—Ray couldn’t guess. Fraser’s lips were moving just above the back of Ray’s hand, and he could feel Fraser’s breath washing warm over his skin. Some of the panicky feeling in Ray’s chest subsided at the tenderness in Fraser’s grip.

“You nervous?” Ray murmured, and Fraser opened his eyes, a soft smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Strangely, no,” Fraser said, and turned Ray’s hand over, examining it with a little frown of concentration. He brushed his fingers over Ray’s palm, and…huh. That felt kind of good. Ray resisted the urge to ask Fraser to do it again.

“Me neither,” he said quickly, and swallowed. Fraser was still brushing his fingers lightly over his palm, and then he raised Ray’s hand to his mouth again, this time dropping a kiss in the center of his palm. He felt the flicker of Fraser’s tongue, and Ray sucked in a deep breath. Jesus.

“Let’s, uh, let’s go to the bedroom, okay?” Ray said, embarrassed by the catch in his voice but too turned on to care. Without a word, Fraser moved into him like plug fitting into a socket: he just folded himself around Ray’s body, wrapped his arms around Ray’s neck, and gave him another one of those hot, intent kisses. Ray’s head spun a little. If he’d known kissing Fraser (or being kissed by Fraser) would feel this good, he’d have made the fuckbuddy offer years ago.

“Fraser,” Ray said, panting a little as he broke away. He leaned his forehead against Fraser’s, mainly because he didn’t really want to be any further away from him than he absolutely had to. “Bedroom, okay? Let’s…go there. Now.” He tugged on Fraser’s hand, and then laced their fingers together before moving purposefully down the hall. Fraser shuffled along behind him, moving a little like a man caught up in some kind of hoodoo spell, and they both ignored Dief’s little whuffle, which sounded suspiciously like, “I told you so.”

The fog of arousal in Ray’s head had started to clear a little by the time they reached the bedroom, and he turned to look at Fraser, wondering if he’d need to lay down some kind of ground rules about what they’d do together in bed. _No ass stuff_ , he planned to say, but Fraser stepped back and pulled his shirt up and over his head, and the words flew right out of his head.

He’d seen Fraser shirtless just a couple of nights ago, but it’d been dark in the living room then, and Fraser’d been hurting, so Ray hadn’t exactly been in a mood to notice how beautiful Fraser’s body was. And even now it felt weird to think a thing like that about Fraser, about another guy. The only other body Ray’d ever found beautiful was Stella’s. She’d been small and golden and long-limbed, her breasts high and round and perfect. He’d loved her breasts, and her elegant body, and the warm, secret place between her legs. Fraser was big, and his skin glowed white in the low light of the bedroom. He didn’t have breasts and whatever he was hiding under those snow-white boxers, Ray was pretty sure it wouldn’t be as sweet as Stella. But Fraser…Fraser was beautiful. And Ray felt himself growing hard.

Ray couldn’t help licking his lips in nervous anticipation.

“You look a little like a wolf when you do that,” Fraser murmured, his eyes dark and hot.

“Fraser, do not tell me any stories about you and Dief,” he said, smiling, and Fraser huffed out a shocked, “Ray!” before Ray danced them backwards. The back of Fraser’s knees hit the bed and he flopped down on his back with a surprised, “Ooof!” Ray looked at him then, big and broad and almost alien in the familiar surroundings of Ray’s own bedroom. He’d never expected to be here. Not with another guy. Certainly not with Fraser.

Suddenly the fear that he’d been able to ignore for most of the night washed over him, a great big wave of sick, nervous anxiety. Could he really do this? Could he lie down beside Fraser and keep kissing him, and let Fraser touch him, and touch Fraser in return? He’d been doing fine until he thought about how weird it’d be, but now Ray felt his half-erect dick deflate like an old balloon. Fuck. He just couldn’t do this. He couldn’t make it with a guy.

“Ray?”

Fraser’s voice startled him out of his little trip to Freakoutville, and Ray swallowed and shook himself. He needed to hit something, or go out for a long, hard run. He needed to _move_. Because otherwise he’d start shaking, and he’d never be able to stop.

“Ray,” Fraser said again, his voice low and gentle. He maneuvered himself up onto his knees and balanced on the edge of his bed, looking up at Ray. He looked worried and just as nervous as Ray, and for some reason that made Ray feel a little better.

“Are you all right?”

He couldn’t speak, so he just shook his head. Fraser frowned and scratched his eyebrow, as though he were trying to decide something. They were hovering on the edge of something. Ray could feel it. Some major tipping point, and if he said so, they’d move back to the way things were. Back to being buddies and partners and best friends. Just friends. They’d probably never talk about sex again.

_And Fraser’ll go out and fuck strangers, and maybe it’ll kill him,_ Ray thought. Because he was playing for keeps, here. Much more was at stake than just his rep as a straight guy, a guy who should’ve been at home right now with his beautiful wife and a couple of blond-haired little kids. If he didn’t figure out a way to do this, to make love to Fraser, and to make it good, he’d lose the best friend he’d ever had. And Fraser would maybe lose his life. He’d end up like Larry Chan, and Ray couldn’t stand the thought of that. Seeing Fraser broken like that would kill him.

“Frase, can I just…can I just touch you?” he asked, and Fraser looked at him for a long time. Ray knew he had to look pretty nervous, but for once Fraser didn’t question him, or offer some crazy tip about boiled beaver testicles having a calming affect or whatever. Instead he just nodded slowly, and lay back down on the bed, spreading himself out like a human sacrifice. Ray drew in a shaky breath and nodded. Okay. He could do this

He knelt on the bed next to Fraser, and began to explore Fraser’s body. He ran his hands down Fraser’s smooth side and over his flat, muscled stomach. Fraser’s body was hard and solid, warm and real, and he was surprised how good it felt to touch him. He hadn’t touched anyone in so long, and Ray discovered that he’d missed the simple feeling of warm flesh under his hands.

And Fraser was warm. Hot, almost. His skin was flushed and it seemed to heat further under Ray’s hands, putting off heat like an electric blanket. Fraser felt pretty amazing, and when Ray brushed his hands over Fraser’s pecs, he rubbed his thumb over Fraser’s nipple, which hardened under his touch. Just like Stella’s always had. And just like Stella, Fraser sighed a little in pleasure and arched up into Ray’s touch.

“You like that, huh?” The sound of his own voice shocked him a little: it was low and rough, like his throat was coated with gravel.

Fraser nodded, and then said, “Yes,” like he was worried Ray might miss the need and pleasure that was rolling off Fraser in waves. God, Fraser was so damn responsive. He was like an electric current under Ray’s hand, shivering and sparking with desire. And even though Fraser was obviously keeping a lid on things, even though he was obviously trying not to freak Ray out, Ray could feel how much Fraser was enjoying the simple little rubdown.

And if he was already blissed out on just the sensation of Ray’s hands on him, Ray wondered how Fraser would feel if he did…other stuff.

He slid his hands down Fraser’s body, grinning a little at the way he could feel Fraser’s stomach muscles tremble and tighten. There was a soft, almost invisible line of hair that started low on Fraser’s body, and Ray rubbed at it absently with his thumb, considering. He should know what he was dealing with here, right? Fraser’d kept his boxers on, and Ray thought it might be a good idea to get a look at Fraser’s equipment. Just to see if he could really go through with this.

And, he had to admit, because he kind of wanted to get a look at Fraser, totally naked and spread out on the bed beneath him.

Ray followed the little trail of hair that ran from Fraser’s navel on down, and slid his hand beneath the waistband of Fraser’s boxers, quickly finding the startling heat and silky hardness of Fraser’s erection.

Fraser gasped just as Ray wrapped his hand around Fraser’s cock, squeezing a little. Fraser felt…full. And hard. He squeezed Fraser’s dick experimentally, and it seemed to twitch back, which made him smile. That was familiar. This was no alien body part: Fraser felt like Ray himself did, and he’d certainly jerked off enough in his life to know what to do with a hard-on.

Ray adjusted his grip a little and stroked down once, slowly, from root to tip. If Fraser had been responsive to his touch before, he was going wild now: the slight change in pressure made Fraser thrust into his hand and grip Ray’s shoulder hard, all but pressing him down, and Ray felt himself grow hard again just from watching Fraser’s reaction.

“You’re okay with this, right?” he asked, and Fraser’s eyes few open. His pupils were blown, and his eyes looked strange and dark. Ray shivered a little, but this time it wasn’t out of fear or nervousness. God, when was the last time he’d made anyone feel like that?

“Yes, Ray,” Fraser said, and the tone in his voice made Ray’s dick twitch. “Very much so.”

And then Fraser, who’d been so good at just lying back and let Ray play around with his body, reached down and wrapped his hand around Ray’s. Ray gasped a little in surprise; Fraser’s hand was so hot it almost burned him, and the strength in his grip, the size of his hand, made it impossible for Ray to forget that he was doing this with another guy.

And strangely, that was suddenly okay. Because he liked the feeling of Fraser’s hand wrapped around his own, and he definitely liked stroking Fraser, all that hard, hot, yielding flesh under his hand. Together they worked Fraser’s dick, stroking down with a firm grip, and squeezing and twisting a little on the upstroke. Ray’s wrist started to ache a little from the awkward angle, but he didn’t want to stop. But he did want to see what was going on.

Ray slid his hand out from under Fraser’s, and Fraser’s growl of displeasure made Ray grin. No doubt about it: Fraser was a guy.

“Take these off, okay?” he said, tugging at the waistband of Fraser’s boxers.

Fraser complied so fast it was almost funny: he whipped off his shorts in record time and lay down again, tugging Ray close for a long, wet kiss. Ray almost collapsed on top of Fraser, and closed his eyes, loosing himself in the sensation of Fraser’s mouth on his own, the hard length of Fraser’s body rubbing against his. He closed his eyes, took one more deep breath, and broke away from Fraser’s mouth with more than a little regret. But he really did need to get the lay of the land down there; touching Fraser was one thing. Seeing him was a whole new ballgame. Ray slid off Fraser, and looked down.

It figured that a guy who looked like Fraser would have a textbook-perfect dick: it was thick but not too long, wider than Ray’s, with a little loose skin around the tip that Ray guessed meant Fraser hadn’t been circumcised. His penis was flushed pink and Ray could see a drop of moisture welling at the head: it caught the light, and he stared at it, fascinated. Like a man under hypnosis, Ray shimmied down Fraser’s body until he was level with his lap. He flicked at the droplet experimentally with his thumb, and Fraser gasped, “Ray!” before Ray could put a gentling hand on his stomach. Fraser leaned back and touched Ray’s face. His fingers were trembling a little, and Ray looked up, smiling at him.

“It’s okay. I can…I think I can do this,” he said quietly, licking his lips. And it was true. He _could_ do this. He could jerk Fraser off, but he could also…he could also suck Fraser off. He wanted to.

And before that thought had time to freak him out, Ray ducked his head and licked one long, wet stripe up the side of Fraser’s dick.

Fraser tasted good, clean and with a hint of soap, but musky, too. The slight saltiness of precome flooded Ray’s mouth, oddly familiar from the few times he’d tasted himself on Stella’s lips. And that was it. _Familiar_. Fraser tasted familiar.

He bent down for another taste, and this time Ray swirled his tongue experimentally around the tip of Fraser’s penis, which made Fraser gasp and arch up into Ray’s mouth. Ray threw his arm across Fraser’s hips to keep him from pushing his dick into Ray’s mouth. Ray knew he wasn’t quite ready for that, since he was still adjusting to the feeling of a guy’s dick in his mouth, and Fraser seemed to understand. He eased himself back down onto the bed, and seemed content to let Ray continue with his slow exploration.

The taste was okay. And a dick was a dick was a dick, and Ray had plenty of experience with his own, which wasn’t nearly as nice-looking as Fraser’s. Ray’s was just an ordinary dick, a little long, and hanging a little to the left, and it was nothing special. But Ray would almost call Fraser’s dick pretty, if that wasn’t a weird thing to say about a penis. He liked the warm, heavy weight of it, liked the way each small movement of his tongue made Fraser twitch a little. He seemed to be trembling with effort to hold still and not freak Ray out.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Ray knew he’d finally passed the point where anything Fraser said or did could send him running out of the room. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying _Fraser_ , and seeing how good he could make Fraser feel. That was the point, wasn’t it? Giving Fraser a little happiness, a little pleasure. And Ray was definitely okay with doing that.

He lapped at the head of Fraser’s dick before pulling off to lick another long, wet stripe up to the tip. More quiet whimpering from Fraser, and at the soft sound, Ray used one hand to cup Fraser’s balls a little, massaging them gently. He’d always liked it when Stella played with his balls when she was going down on him, and it looked like Fraser liked it, too. He spread his legs and hitched up his hips, which seemed like an invitation.

Ray hesitated for a second, wondering if Fraser really wanted…that. He’d known that men were supposed to have some kind of hot zone in their ass, but it surprised Ray that Fraser wanted his touch _there_. Still, this was about Fraser, and Ray’d already gone much farther than he’d expected. _Take it slow,_ he told himself sternly, fear mixing with arousal until his whole body was buzzing.

Ray moved his hand a little lower until he encountered the hot, incredibly soft skin around Fraser’s anus. The slightly wrinkled skin was supple, and more flexible than he’d expected. Ray rubbed it lightly, almost choking as Fraser thrust up into his mouth. He could hear Fraser’s wild panting, interrupted occasionally by Fraser’s murmurings of, “Oh, yes!” and “Please!” Which made Ray smile, because of course Fraser would be polite in bed.

He wrapped one hand around Fraser’s dick and kept running his finger around Fraser’s hole in small circles, concentrating on keeping the movements controlled and even. He jacked Fraser a little harder, moaning softly at the way Fraser bucked and shivered. He threaded his fingers through Ray’s head and held on tight, like he needed something to anchor him.

That sparked something for Ray, deep down. Some hot, flooding feeling that he’d never experienced before. It was like the sight of Fraser feeling so good, enjoying this so much, was feeding something deep within Ray. Something he hadn’t even known was hungry.

“Ray, please, I’m going to—” Fraser was saying. Yelling, really, or maybe it just seemed like he was talking really loud. Ray couldn’t tell anymore. Fraser tugged at Ray’s hair, and Ray pulled away just as the first warm, wet pulses of come welled out of the tip of Fraser’s dick.

“God!” Fraser shouted, his head thrown back and his throat exposed. His legs contracted, his knee brushing Ray’s side, and Ray moaned a little in sympathy. That looked like one hell of an orgasm.

Suddenly desperate, he worked a hand beneath his body to cup his own dick, which was achingly hard and demanding some attention. His own hand wasn’t quite what he wanted, but Fraser was still too blissed out to notice anything at all, and Ray needed to come. He stroked himself roughly, barely registering the feeling of his own calluses gliding against his hot, sensitive skin, or that his hand was still slightly wet from Fraser’s come.

He shook, pushing himself up onto his knees and leaning his hand against the headboard, jerking himself off with quick, efficient strokes. God, it felt good. Even if it was just his own, familiar hand, he could imagine it was someone else’s. Fraser’s, maybe. And the sudden image of Fraser’s hand on his dick, or his mouth on his dick, made Ray jerk, gasp, and come.

When he was finished, Ray flopped down beside Fraser, gasping for breath. He was completely drained of everything but the warm, floating feeling of release. When Fraser set his hand on Ray’s chest, Ray cracked open an eye to see Fraser looking down at him in wonder. Ray smiled up at him, and then grabbed Fraser and dragged him down for a kiss. He thrust his tongue deep into Fraser’s mouth, chasing out the tastes of need and want and satisfaction. When his body began to shake with exhaustion Ray sighed and finally released Fraser, who chuckled and settled down beside him, wrapping himself along Ray’s body. He set his head on Ray’s chest and Ray threaded his hands through Fraser’s hair, content to lie still and give Fraser a little scalp massage. Which Fraser seemed to like, if his soft little moan of contentment was any indication.

Their bodies were both sticky, and that was going to get uncomfortable—Ray’d never been a big fan of chafing—but at the moment, it didn’t matter.

This was good. This was greatness.

This was definitely going to work.

***

Ray woke up early on Tuesday morning.

It took him a while to figure out why it was still dark out, and why he felt so hot. He tried to roll over so he could check the time—he could see a pale pre-dawn light peaking through a gap in the curtains—but encountered a big, warm speedbump in the bed. He jumped a little and the speedbump grunted, and Ray smiled. Oh yeah.

“Hey, Fraser,” he said, and nudged Fraser with his knee. “Move over a little, okay?”

Fraser was crowded way over onto Ray’s side of the bed. He lay on his belly, head pillowed on one folded arm, and his hair was all mussed. When he raised his head to blink sleepily at Ray, Ray had to grin. Fraser had big red pillow creases criss-crossing his cheek.

“Jeeze, Fraser, you leading a secret double life as Two Face?” Ray chuckled, and reached out to brush the marks on Fraser’s cheek.

Fraser blinked a few more times, and shook his head. “I don’t—”

“Roll over.” Ray nudged Fraser’s shoulder. It was a little like trying to move a mountain, but eventually Fraser seemed to take the hint and rolled over onto his back. Okay, one thing was clear: Benton Fraser was definitely not a morning person. Or maybe a night of sex had just knocked him out.

Ray shivered in the cool air. Fraser had dragged most of the covers with him, and Ray wasn’t wearing anything to protect himself against the morning chill of his apartment. He considered his options for a half-second, and then shrugged and burrowed in close to Fraser’s side, flinging his arm over Fraser’s chest and twining their legs together. Slowly, and with obvious uncertainty, Fraser slid his arm under Ray’s neck. He kept looking down at Ray, like he was checking to make sure it was okay. Ray _hmmm_ ed in encouragement, and patted Fraser’s shoulder when Fraser hugged him close. Looked like old Mounties could learn new tricks after all.

This was good. Ray snuffled happily and buried his face in Fraser’s shoulder, not entirely unable to resist kissing the warm, salty-sweet skin there. God, he’d missed waking up next to someone. Missed the feeling of contentment and security, missed the low-grade buzz of satisfaction after getting laid and passing out in his own bed. And this good feeling? Was all Fraser’s doing.

“Ray, are you awake?” Fraser asked, and he sounded so uncertain that Ray lifted his head so he could see Fraser’s confused, sleepy face.

“’Course I am,” he said. “Are you?”

“I’m not sure,” Fraser confessed softly. “This feels a bit like a dream.”

Ray freed a hand to scratch at his nose. What the hell did that mean? “Uh, nope,” he said, trying to keep his tone playful. “’Fraid not. If this were a dream we’d probably be a little less sticky, and way less stinky.” He paused and steeled himself. Maybe he’d read this whole thing wrong. Maybe Fraser just wanted to fuck and then go back to the Consulate. He’d said wasn’t going to invite any of his pickups home with him. Maybe Fraser just didn’t want to wake up beside anyone.

He thought of the lonely, barren little cot in Fraser’s office, and shut his eyes.

Fraser’s arm tightened around him. “I’m…I’m glad to hear it’s not a dream, Ray. And I like the way you smell.”

That made him feel a whole lot better. He wished Fraser didn’t sound so unsure of himself, but he figured they could work on that. In fact, he made a resolution right then and there: no more second-guessing everything. If Fraser didn’t want to be here, he’d say so, right?

“Good,” Ray said. “That’s good.” He cupped the side of Fraser’s neck, and let his hand slide suggestively down Fraser’s chest, marveling at how smooth he felt, how solid.

“You have a good time last night?” Ray asked, rubbing his hand back and forth across Fraser’s belly, just above his navel. Fraser’s breathing deepened slightly.

“Yes. Very much so,” he added, which made Ray smile.

“Me too,” Ray said.

“Mmmm,” Fraser agreed. Feeling bold, Ray rubbed a little further down, encountering the sparse thatch of pubic hair he remembered from last night. He could see that Fraser was waking up under the sheets. He wrapped his hand around Fraser’s half-hard cock, the feel of him already familiar after just one night, but Fraser growled and flipped them both over so quickly Ray didn’t have a chance to resist. He was suddenly flat on his back and Fraser was, uh, _nuzzling_ down his chest. Okay. He could go with this.

Fraser dropped a kiss on Ray’s sternum and then headed left, his mouth settling over Ray’s nipple, and Ray bucked up against him with a shocked, “Fraser!”

Christ. He’d always liked having his nipples played with, but this was—

He threw his head back and arched against Fraser’s mouth, shuddering as Fraser licked and—ooooh, yeah—bit. He wasn’t rough, just forceful, which Ray dug in a big, big way. He let out a surprised little gasp when Fraser blew over the wet nipple he’d just teased to hardness. The wash of cool air after the warmth of Fraser’s mouth made Ray jerk, and he threaded his hands through Fraser’s soft, thick hair—so soft, God—and guided him to his other nipple.

He told himself that he was just imagining Fraser’s self-satisfied chuckle.

The second assault went on for a long time, and by the time Fraser eased away from Ray’s nipple, Ray was painfully hard and more desperate to come than he could ever remember being.

“Fraser,” he panted, fingers tightening and loosening reflexively in Fraser’s hair. “Whatever you plan on doing, do it _soon_ , okay?”

“Okay,” Fraser said, placing a very gentle kiss on Ray’s belly. “I’d like to taste you. Is that all right?”

Ray just groaned. “Yeah, Fraser, that’s fine,” he huffed, thinking that maybe courtesy was overrated. “Just…do whatever.” He had a feeling that anything Fraser wanted to do to him would feel pretty damn good.

And when Fraser closed his mouth over Ray’s cock, Ray realized that he really had to stop underestimating the guy. ‘Good’ didn’t even begin to describe it.

He shook and gasped and writhed under Fraser. He cried out, and pulled on Fraser’s hair, and he was pretty sure that he even kicked Fraser once, right in the side, because Fraser really knew what he was doing. Getting a blowjob from Fraser was like he imaged it’d feel to drive a Formula 500 race car. Fast, and intense, and pretty much the most fun Ray’d ever had in his whole life.

And the ride just kept going. Because Fraser had stamina. Apart from being the track champion of blowjobs—he knew exactly how to angle his head, how hard or fast to suck, how to use his hand so that even when he was teasing the tip of Ray’s cock with his tongue, the rest of him was covered—Fraser also made it seem like there was nothing else he’d rather be doing.

Stella hadn’t really liked giving head. She’d said that it hurt her jaw, and so usually he was lucky to get five minutes before they moved on to other things. But Fraser seemed to like it. A lot. He kept his eyes closed and made soft, sexy little moans around Ray’s dick. The vibrations felt fantastic, but it was the idea that Fraser got off on this so much that really turned Ray’s crank.

He only had one brief moment of uncertainty, and that was when Fraser slid his hand off Ray’s cock, stroked his balls a little—Jesus, that felt good—and then reached back further and brushed his finger over Ray’s asshole.

He jerked, hard, surprised by how shockingly good that’d felt. But he wasn’t ready for that. Not by a long shot. His misgivings from the produce section last night came flooding back, along with the medical report on Larry Chan, and Ray felt himself soften a little in Fraser’s mouth.

“I don’t think—I don’t want to do that,” Ray said, gasping for breath. “Okay?”

Fraser hummed soothingly in response and quickly withdrew his finger, sucking Ray down again quickly, and Ray closed his eyes, convinced that Fraser understood. In a matter of minutes he was right back on the edge, and he held Fraser’s head tightly, crying out, “Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop!” over and over until his body jerked and spilled into Fraser’s hot mouth.

He wasn’t surprised that Fraser swallowed, and that he managed it without choking. Before Ray had even regained basic motor function Fraser had climbed back up to flop beside him. He was grinning, and wiping a thumb across his mouth.

“God,” Ray said, breathing hard. He shut his eyes, waiting for the little post-orgasm trembles to stop. He felt weak as a kitten. “That was—”

“Yes,” Fraser agreed, and it sounded like he was fighting for breath a little, too. “You’re quite…responsive.”

Ray peaked at Fraser through half-shut eyes. “Uh, thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome, Ray,” Fraser said primly, but Ray heard the smile in his voice. He laughed, and Fraser joined in with a silly high-pitched giggle that Ray hadn’t ever heard before. He stopped laughing so he could hear it better, liking the sound (even though, yeah, Fraser _giggled_ ) and was disappointed when Fraser immediately clammed up. He didn’t want Fraser to feel self-conscious, so he rolled over and gave him a slow, sweet kiss.

“Hey,” Ray murmured, looking down into Fraser’s eyes. “It was good, last night. And this morning.”

Fraser nodded gravely. “I’m glad,” he said, and Ray could tell that yeah, Fraser really was. But of course Fraser couldn’t leave it at that. He scratched at his eyebrow, and said, “I, uh, I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. When I—with my fingers…”

“Hey,” Ray said, catching at Fraser’s hand. He closed his eyes and kissed Fraser’s knuckles. “’S okay. Really. I’m just not ready for that. Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Fraser repeated, and there was a weird, unexpected note of hope in his voice that threw Ray.

“Yeah,” Ray said slowly, thinking of the Chan case, about some of the stuff he’d seen doing those undercover ops for Vice. “Yeah. I gotta—work through some things first.” He watched Fraser’s face carefully, and when Fraser nodded, Ray sat up.

“You really thought this was a one-time thing, didn’t you? Even after what we talked about at dinner?”

“The thought did cross my mind, yes,” Fraser admitted.

Ray sighed. He leaned back against the headboard, stacking pillows behind him until he was comfortable.

“Well, Fraser, that really jars my preserves.” Ray folded his arms across his chest. “Look, why do you think I’m doing this?”

Fraser shook his head. “I suppose…because we’re friends?” He looked a little lost. “And because you feel sorry for me.”

Ray resisted the urge to cuff Fraser upside the head.

“ “Nah, that’s not it at all. This wasn’t a pity fuck.” He wasn’t sure, exactly, what it _had_ been, but that was something he could ask himself later. In private. “You’re my best friend.” he took a deep breath, determined to be honest. “And I’m getting something out of this deal too, okay?”

“Oh?” Fraser asked, looking real nervous, like he didn’t dare to say more. That weird note was back in his voice. The hope-note.

“Yeah,” Ray said, decided that was another question he could put aside for now and ask himself about later, when he had some privacy, and some time to check out those sharks down there. “I’ve been alone a long time. And waking up with you this morning, that was good. Really good. I missed it, I guess. Being with someone.”

He ran a hand through his hair, a little worried that he sounded pathetic. But Fraser didn’t say anything, so Ray continued. “Okay, so here’s what’s on the table: dinners, movies, whatever we usually did before we started fucking, okay?”

The profanity didn’t get a rise out of Fraser, which meant that he was concentrating pretty hard on the content of what Ray was saying. Which was good. Ray waited until Fraser nodded at him, and then went on ticking items off on his fingers. “Cuddling,” he said, “and kissing.” He leaned over to brush his mouth against Fraser’s lips in demonstration. “And lots of sex. Mountains of it. A real all-you-can-eat buffet. With a couple of limitations, of course,” he amended, checking to make sure Fraser understood.

Fraser licked his lips, and nodded.

Ray drew a deep breath, finally prepared to keep the promise he’d made to himself the night Fraser had been beaten and Ray had broken into the empty Consulate. “And you could sleep here, if you want.”

He couldn’t make himself check Fraser’s reaction; he just rushed through to finish his offer. “You gotta get out of the Consulate. You’re not happy there. It’s a lousy place to live. And I figure…well, you’ll probably be over here most nights anyway. So I’m just saying, if you want to stay here, you can. Leave your toothbrush in the bathroom, some food for Dief. Whatever you like. Just…don’t feel like you got to go back to the Consulate right away, okay?”

Silence from Fraser, which made Ray feel a little embarrassed about the offer. _Jesus, way to rush into things, Kowalski_. “Hey, I’m not too bad to room with, y’know? I can actually keep the place clean as long as there’s someone around to give me a reason to do it. And I just—” he thumped his head back against the wall. “I need someone around to give me a reason. I don’t do so well alone.”

He finally felt like he could look at Fraser’s face. Fraser looked torn between relief, happiness, and an expression of what Ray could only identify as complete and total misery.

“But Ray,” he said quietly, “you don’t love me. What happens when you meet someone that you could legitimately care about?”

“I think I’m done with love,” Ray said, just as quietly, risking a quick glance at Fraser. “I’m not that good at it.”

Fraser looked a little pale in the dim light. “I think you’re selling yourself short, Ray.”

“Maybe,” he sighed. “Anyway, you don’t gotta worry about it. I love you, buddy. That’s not going to change.”

“You love me as a friend,” Fraser clarified, and Ray nodded, wondering why Fraser needed the reassurance. Must be because the people Fraser’d been with didn’t love him, either, and he’d gotten hurt as a result.

“Yeah, as a friend,” Ray told him, and squeezed his hand briefly, hoping that Fraser could hear the sincerity in his voice. He didn’t want Fraser thinking Ray was pining away for him, or anything. That wasn’t what this was about. And the last thing Fraser needed to worry about was _Ray_ getting hurt over their little arrangement.

Fraser seemed comforted, at least a little. He swallowed and pulled his hand back. “And that’s fine,” he said, more to himself than to Ray, which was a little strange. “That is, after all, quite a bit.”

“Yeah,” Ray agreed, feeling a hell of a lot better now that he was sure they were on the same page. “It is a lot, isn’t it?”

Of course it’d be enough, he told himself. It would have to be.

***

Later that morning Ray drove Fraser back to the Consulate so he could get changed and cleaned up before court, and take Dief out for a long run. Ray went back to his place and cleaned out some space for Fraser’s stuff. He made room in his closet for one of Fraser’s spare uniforms, and emptied out a shelf in his medicine cabinet for Fraser’s shaving gear and some of those weird Canadian homemade remedies that always smelled like baby puke.

At one point—probably when he was cleaning out the second drawer of the bureau so Fraser’d have somewhere to put a couple of pairs of socks and undies—Ray froze. What the hell was he doing? But before he could even seriously consider the question, he pictured the bruise on Fraser’s face, and that lonely bed of his at the consulate. And about how not-empty his own small apartment had felt this morning, when Fraser was there.

_But what if someone finds out?_

That one stopped him cold. He didn’t really have an answer for it: he’d almost lost it on Dewey when he’d suggested that Ray and Fraser were queer together. How would he react now that it was true? And what would it mean for Ray Vecchio, who was, at least as far as Ray knew, as straight as Steve McQueen?

Maybe Fraser had some suggestions about how to hide it. After all, Ray’d been partnered with Fraser for almost two years, and had only found out he was gay by accident. Fraser was pretty good at hiding this kind of thing. He’d know what to do. ‘Ask Fraser’ probably wasn’t the best plan, but it made him feel a little better about it anyway.

***

Fraser’s plan, as it turned out, was to go on like they had before. Their agreement seemed to be working out okay. They had dinner together most nights, alternating nights for cooking and cleanup. Ray kept the bathroom shipshape, and Fraser handled the kitchen. They worked cases. They hung out after and played cards and watched TV and went to see movies, and walked around Chicago looking for parking violations and fire hydrants for the wolf to pee on. At least, that’s what Ray thought they were doing. Fraser insisted that they were “exploring the city.”

And almost every night when Ray went to climb into bed, Fraser was there, too.

It gave him a funny feeling, the security of that. When he’d been married to Stella they’d usually worked pretty different schedules, and he’d come home to a cold bed more often than not during the years he was married. But because he and Fraser worked mostly the same schedule, they were usually done at the same time. And even when they had to pull long hours on a truly baffling case, they could go home together and collapse into bed.

Some mornings Fraser went back to the Consulate early because he had to open up, or because he was still supposed to be living there, and even Thatcher would’ve noticed that something had changed. And every morning that Fraser woke up at the crack of dawn and slipped away, Ray tried to imagine what it would be like to have Fraser _really_ living at his place. Being roomates and fuckbuddies and best friends all at once.

But Ray didn’t let himself think about that too often. He focused on what they did have, which was good. The almost-living-together thing was good, the working-together thing was great, and the sex was pretty mind-blowing. That first night had been pretty outstanding, so Ray had figured they’d be okay together in the sack, but the sex just kept getting better.

He discovered that he really liked giving blowjobs, as well as getting them. And that was a little unexpected. It took him a few weeks to get used to the fact that, yeah, he liked sucking dick. At least, he liked sucking Fraser’s dick, and the way Fraser gasped and arched up against him, and ran his hands through Ray’s hair, and made soft little noises that Ray’d never known Fraser could make.

And as for reciprocation…well, Fraser had a wicked mouth, and hot eyes, and a fucking _fantastic_ imagination, and they spent a lot of long nights in those first few weeks ramping each other up, Fraser mapping every inch of his skin with his mouth and his tongue, Ray teaching him about circumstances in which patience was way, way over rated.

He learned a lot about Fraser. He learned that Fraser had been alone most of his life, and that he’d slept with exactly four people. And he’d only spent more than one of those nights with the same person. He’d had sex with a woman once in 1987, and then again with the same woman in 1994, and she was somehow responsible for that ugly scar in Fraser’s back. Fraser hadn’t really gone into any details—he’d been half-asleep when Ray, after wondering about it for a couple of nights, finally asked him if he’d ever been in love. And Fraser’d told Ray a weird, abbreviated story about diamonds and revenge and old hatred, which made Ray feel more confused than enlightened.

The other people had all been guys Fraser had picked up after he moved to Chicago. “There was little opportunity for casual sex in the Northwest Territories, Ray,” Fraser had explained a little sleepily, and Ray’d nodded, like that explanation was supposed to have meant something.

He also learned that Fraser liked to be held down. That’d shocked him a little when he’d first discovered it. They’d been kissing, and Ray had slid on top of Fraser’s body, trying to line their cocks up, when he’d lost his balance and grabbed Fraser’s wrists to help steady himself. Fraser’s eyes had gone hot and dark and he’d moaned a little, and his cock had swelled. Ray, being the observant type and thus able to take a hint, had tightened his hold and lifted Fraser’s wrists above his head, pinning him there as he rutted against Fraser’s belly, sliding his cock against Fraser’s hip. Fraser had come like a rocket just from that, just from the glide of Ray’s belly against his cock, and Ray’s hands holding him down.

The next night, when Ray’d held up his department-issue handcuffs, Fraser had gone a little wild, kissing him and kissing him until Ray couldn’t breathe. And then Fraser had kept his eyes locked on Ray’s, trembling while Ray’d locked the cuffs around his wrists. Ray had rubbed his thumb against the soft skin of Fraser’s inner wrist, and they’d both gasped when his nail had clicked against the metal. Jesus. The things you learned about someone once you started screwing them.

The thought of what they’d done together after that made Ray squirm when he’d thought about it the next day. And that was weird: living with Fraser was easy. Comfortable.

But fucking him was something entirely different.

Fraser respected Ray’s wishes, and he never put his hands—or any other body parts—near Ray’s ass. Ray did wonder what he was missing, but not enough to put it on the table. Instead, he worked hard to make sure Fraser had a good time. He got better at giving head, and even went so far as to order a couple of books about it from a place that mailed out their stuff in plain brown paper wrapping. The books helped a little, and Fraser seemed to appreciate Ray’s efforts.

One night, after they’d been fucking for about a month and a half, Ray pulled his mouth off Fraser—who groaned and said something that sounded suspiciously like a swearword—and said, “Can I put my finger in your ass again?”

Fraser jerked away completely and sat up, surprise written all over his face. “Pardon me?” he coughed, sounding scandalized. It was a ridiculous thing to say, and Fraser looked a little ridiculous: hair sticking up where he’d rubbed his head too hard against the pillows, a deep pink flush staining his bare chest, blue eyes wide with shock. Ray thought he looked pretty damned edible. He patted Fraser’s thigh, gentling the touch to a caress when he noticed how good Fraser’s hair-rough skin felt under his palm.

“I did that before, once. That first time. And you seemed to like it.”

Fraser frowned and rubbed at his eyebrow, the gesture so familiar from when he was wearing the uniform that Ray had to shake his head, blanking it from his mind so he wouldn’t think about it the next time he saw Fraser in the serge.

“I—yes, I liked it. But I thought that you weren’t comfortable with any contact…there.”

Ray shrugged and scratched absently at his chest. His own skin was sweaty and tingling with desire, but he could see that Fraser’s erection had faded a bit.

“Uh, yeah. I…” he hesitated, and sighed. “Look, I had this one case, back when I first got my shield. It was pretty ugly. This gay kid, Larry Chan, got raped and beaten and dumped up by Wabash. He wasn’t conscious when they found him, and he was pretty cut up. Inside and out.” Ray blinked away the images. He’d felt sick when he’d read over Larry’s medical report.

“Anyway. Long story short: Larry was in a coma for about ten days. I caught the guy who did it. He was the kid’s boyfriend. Said he did it because he thought Larry was gonna leave him. Said he wanted to give Larry something he’d remember for the rest of his life.”

Fraser was watching him, his expression soft and pained. He put his hand on Ray’s knee, and Ray set his own on top, twining their fingers together. “I’m sorry,” Ray said, and Fraser’s hand tightened.

“What for?” he asked, and Ray shrugged.

“I just…after seeing that, I’m not sure if I can ever—”

“You don’t have to,” Fraser said quickly. Firmly. “I wouldn’t ask for that, Ray. You’ve already given me so much, and…” Now it was Fraser’s turn to hesitate. “And it’s not important to me.”

Ray nodded, half-believing Fraser. But he knew guys. He knew guys liked to fuck, and how long would Fraser really stay interested in someone who could only give him blowjobs and handjobs, and rub up against him sometimes? Because if Fraser got bored or wanted something Ray couldn’t give him, maybe he’d go back to fucking strangers. And then Ray might lose him for good.

“Anyway,” Ray said, covering up his fear with a quick grin. “That’s me. And I was reading today that it feels really good to have a finger up there when somebody’s blowing you.”

Fraser jerked, a little scandalized, and Ray chuckled. Fraser was a guy, and all guys liked to fuck, but he forgot sometimes how funny Fraser could be about putting the proper names to things. He could do something and like it, but he had problems _saying_ it.

“Are you sure, Ray?” Fraser asked, rubbing furiously at his eyebrow. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Ray drew a deep breath. “I know that.” And he did know. He trusted Fraser. “I’m curious, is all. Can I?”

Fraser paused, and leaned over to kiss Ray gently, almost tenderly. “Yes. Anything you want, Ray.”

Now that was the kind of invitation Ray could get behind. He let go of Fraser’s hand and eased him down until Fraser was flat on his back. “Bend your knees, okay?” Ray asked, and Fraser did as requested. Ray shimmied down the bed until he was level with Fraser’s hips. They’d left a lamp on, because Ray liked to look at Fraser while they were fooling around, and the soft glow illuminated Fraser’s by-now-familiar dick and slightly furred balls, and the deeply shadowed cleft of his ass.

Okay. So he understood the basic anatomy, and it wasn’t like he’d never touched Fraser there before. But it was a little different to brush his finger lightly over the hole than to push that finger inside. He swallowed, feeling a little nervous, and felt Fraser’s hand on his shoulder.

“Ray, you’ll want to use some lubricant.” Fraser twisted away and fumbled for something on the table on his side of the bed. He held out a new-looking bottle of slick, tapping it a couple of times against Ray’s shoulder, and Ray shivered as the cool plastic made contact with his skin.

“Always prepared, huh?”

“As a rule,” Fraser said calmly, and Ray wondered what, exactly, might faze the guy. He’d taken all of this in stride: the fuckbuddies thing, the sort-of-roomates thing, and even the restrictions Ray’d placed on his body. He’d never said a word of protest about any of it, and for a second Ray worried that Fraser didn’t know how to say no to him.

But that was stupid, wasn’t it? Because they were buddies. Friends. And Fraser knew he just had to say the word to call the whole thing off.

He checked Fraser’s face in the dim light. Fraser was looking down at him, his expression serious and tough to read. He knew Fraser wanted this—Fraser wouldn’t have agreed, otherwise—but Ray had the feeling that they were about to take a pretty big step here. Something would change once he cracked open that bottle. And he wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with sex at all.

Before he could reconsider, Ray grabbed the lube and squirted some onto his finger. The slick felt strangely cold, but it warmed quickly against his skin. He glanced up at Fraser one last time, and Fraser offered him a small, reassuring smile. Okay. Time to try this.

Ray ran one shiny-slick finger down from Fraser’s balls, and slid his finger down until he located Fraser’s anus. Ray gently pressed his finger there, and Fraser closed his eyes, sighing. “That’s good, Ray. Keep going.”

Ray pressed a little more firmly, and the tip of his finger vanished inside. And God, it was warm in there. Tight. He couldn’t believe that guys actually fit their dicks into each other like this. A dick was much, much bigger than a finger, after all.

“You okay?” he asked, and Fraser nodded. Ray squared his shoulders a little, and pressed in. He felt the muscles give, and his finger was suddenly buried in Fraser’s ass up to the first knuckle. It felt…strangely good. Intimate. A little like it had those first couple of times with Stella when she’d let him put his fingers inside her, if not quite as wet.

He felt Fraser relax a little more, sending him the message that it was okay to keep pressing forward. He moved slowly, very slowly, and soon his finger was fully inside. Ray waited for Fraser’s muscles to get used to the press of his finger, and then he moved his hand back and forth, thrusting in a little more deeply each time.

Fraser seemed to approve. He moaned long and low, and grabbed for Ray’s free hand, which had been resting on Fraser’s slightly hairy knee. Fraser laced their fingers together and Ray smiled, feeling a whole host of emotions: desire, and pleasure, and a little concern mixed in. When Fraser froze and—no question this time—swore softly, Ray stopped what he was doing.

“No, Ray, can you…can you do that again?”

Ray crooked his finger and wiggled it a bit as he pushed in. “Like this?”

“Oh, yes,” Fraser sighed, his eyes drifting shut. He shuddered, and Ray got it. The magic button. It was buried pretty deep inside, just like the book said. He stroked Fraser a couple more times until he was sure he’d gotten the hang of it, and then he pulled out completely. Fraser squeezed his hand and asked, in a slightly pleasure-drugged voice, “Ray…?” but Ray was busy squirting more of the lube into his hand.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it. I got an idea.” This time, Ray used two fingers, easing them slowly into Fraser’s body, stretching him open a little more. Two fingers could reach farther than one, he figured, and it would be easier to hit that magic button.

Fraser shivered against him and tilted his hips up, moving his legs wider.

“That’s—” His breath caught, and Ray bit back a smile. “That’s very good, Ray.”

“I can tell.” And Jesus, Fraser really was beautiful like this, all sprawled out and wanton, legs spread wide, his skin lightly dewed with sweat. His erection had gone down when Ray’d started with the first finger, but now it was back, pressing up slick and hard against Fraser’s belly. Ray reached up to stroke Fraser’s dick with his left hand while he moved the fingers of his right in and out of Fraser’s body in the same rhythm. The effect on Fraser was electric: he shuddered, his flanks rippling like a horse’s, and twisted his hands in the sheets, giving himself up to Ray. Sweat gleamed on his chest, and one small rivulet ran across his pale, smooth belly. Ray paused for a second to lick at the droplet of sweat, and he felt Fraser shudder beneath him.

“Don’t stop,” Fraser gasped. “Please, Ray, don’t stop…”

“I’m not stopping,” Ray said, surprised at how hoarse and rough his voice sounded. He sped up his movements, his fingers pistoning in and out of Fraser, his other hand pumping up and down on Fraser’s dick. And just when he felt the bones in his wrist start to grind together painfully because of the odd angle, and his hand started to go a little numb, Fraser jerked against him, cried out, and came in a hot splash of semen that spilled over Ray’s fist.

Ray pulled his fingers out, making Fraser whimper a little, and then lunged across the bed for the tissue they kept on Fraser’s side. Fraser lay flat on his back, gasping for air like a fish caught out on dry land, and Ray watched as he wiped the lube and spunk off his fingers.

“So I’m guessing that was okay?” he said, grinning when Fraser chuckled in response.

“Yes. You could say that,” Fraser said, wiping at his sweaty forehead. “I might even describe it as ‘transcendental’.”

“Sure, why not?” Ray flopped down next to Fraser and threw his arm across his still-heaving chest. “Describe away.”

Fraser caught at Ray’s hand and lifted it to his lips, brushing his mouth across the back of Ray’s knuckles. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and Ray stilled. There was something in Fraser’s voice. Something he hadn’t heard before. But before he could place it, Fraser dropped his hand and favoured Ray with a wet, messy kiss, twining their tongues together and rubbing his hand suggestively against Ray’s erection.

“And one good turn deserves another, as they say,” Fraser said in a sexy, husky voice he never used anywhere outside of Ray’s bedroom.

“Sounds good,” Ray said, although he kept wondering about the strange note he’d heard in Fraser’s voice, even after Fraser made him come.

***


	6. Chapter 6

***

Spring turned into summer, and Ray took over the night shift for Jim Henderson because Jim’s wife had just given birth to a baby girl. Ray missed spending the nights in with Fraser, of course, but Henderson was a good guy, and Ray didn’t really have it in him to make a new dad spend nights away from his kid.

Ray hated working nights. It was either insanely busy, because most people waited until after midnight to commit major crimes, or it was dead quiet. Ray found himself bumming around the empty bullpen and drinking so much coffee that Fraser started making worried noises about ulcers. He played solitaire on Frannie’s computer, and read the battered paperback novels Vecchio’d kept in his desk. True crime stuff, and mostly about the mafia. Figured.

Ray was working his way through _Undercover Blues: The Donnie Brasco Story_ late one night when he got a call about a mugging north of Berteau and Rockwell. The address gave him a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he grabbed some crime scene guys from the break room downstairs and headed out to the industrial graveyard.

It was an eerie replay of the scene with Fraser back in March. The vic was a short Asian guy in jeans and a leather jacket. He was waiting with a patrolman under a weak streetlight, and Ray had to fight off a shiver at the memory of Fraser slinking out from the shadows, his beautiful face covered in bruises.

The guy—Jason—was shaking and sported some bruises of his own, plus a split lip to match.

“He got my keys,” Jason was explaining to the patrolman. “I don’t think I can go home.”

The patrolman just pursed his lips in distaste and wrote something down in his notebook, which made Ray want to kick him in the head.

“You got somebody you could stay with tonight?” Ray asked. Jason was staring hard at the ground, not meeting the eyes of any of the cops who were standing around, smirking and nudging each other. Ray rolled his eyes and stayed focused on Jason.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked gently, wishing Fraser could’ve been there with him. He was always better at this stuff than Ray.

“I met him at a bar,” Jason explained, his voice pitched low and quiet. Ray had to lean forward to hear him. “He seemed okay. I asked if he wanted to come back to my place, but he said he’d feel better if we came out here instead. He said he wanted some privacy. And I thought it’d be sexy.” Jason ran a shaking hand through his short, dark hair. “God, I’m such a fucking idiot. I should’ve known better. But he seemed safe. He—”

Jason finally looked up and seemed willing to cast a glance in Ray’s direction. But when his eyes met Ray’s, he paled and took a step backward, his sneakers scraping in the gravel.

“Y—you…” he stuttered, and turned back to the patrolman. “Can I talk to someone else?” Jason asked, looking anywhere but at Ray. The patrolman frowned, mystified.

“Detective Vecchio’s ranking officer here,” he tried to explain, but Jason waved him off.

“I can’t talk to him,” he said urgently, and Ray felt his confusion give way to anger. What the hell had he done to scare this guy?

“Well, you have to,” the patrolman, Officer Monterey, told him. Ray could practically feel the condescension in his voice. “There’s no one else.”

“Lay off, Monterey,” Ray said. “Jason, if you’ll come back to the station with us, we’ll get you set up with one of the other detectives and get a description of the guy who attacked you. We just want to catch this asshole, okay?”

Jason shrugged, looking at the ground, the flashing bubblelights on the CPD cruiser, anywhere but at Ray.

“Okay,” he said in a flat, dull voice. “Whatever you say.”

***

Detective Ramirez agreed to start her shift a couple of hours early and come in to talk to Jason. Ray watched from the observation room of Interview Two, staring fixedly through the two-way mirror and trying to figure out why Jason had refused to talk to him.

“Can you describe the man who attacked you?” Ramirez asked, and Jason nodded.

“Yeah. He looks just like that blond detective who works here.”

Ramirez didn’t say anything for a second, and the silence crackled loudly over the speakers. Ray curled his hands into tight fists. What. The. Fuck?

“He looked like Detective Vecchio?” Ramirez clarified, and Jason shrugged. “Yeah. A little older, maybe. But same height, same build, same damn face. I nearly had a heart attack when I noticed.”

“I see,” Ramirez said. “But it wasn’t Detective Vecchio who…”

“No, no,” Jason said quickly. “The guy who did it didn’t sound like him, for one. He sort of sounded like he was from Minnesota. Or he could have been Canadian, maybe.”

Canadian. Ray felt the world bend and twist, and he broke out into a cold sweat. Fraser. _Jesus Christ_. Could it really be the same guy? The MO was the same: all the details and the location fit. But if the man who’d attacked Fraser looked just like Ray, why had Fraser said he couldn’t ID the guy?

But that wasn’t what Fraser had said back in March. He’d said he wouldn’t ID the guy. Big difference.

Suddenly Ray wanted to punch someone. Preferably Fraser. They could’ve caught this asshole months ago, if only…if only… But Fraser hadn’t wanted Ray to know he’d picked up a guy who looked just like Ray. Why? Was he embarrassed? Or—

Holy fuck. There was a reason why Fraser hadn’t wanted Ray to know. A big one.

He left Ramirez to finish the interview and went back to his desk, his mind whirling. He knew Fraser. Knew him better than pretty much anyone. And the only possible explanation for Fraser picking up a guy who looked just like Ray, and then keeping quiet about it when said guy cleaned his clock, was that Fraser hadn’t wanted Ray to know he’d picked up someone who looked like Ray.

What had Fraser said? _If you can’t have what you want, you settle for what you can have_. He’d looked so sad when he’d said that. Like his heart was breaking. And…and if he’d settled for a guy who’d looked like Ray, that meant…

Holy fuck indeed.

***

The sun was only just starting to rise when Ray entered the apartment, and so everything was cast in silvery-grey light. He took off his coat and unsnapped his holster, got a glass of water from the kitchen tap, and leaned against the counter, drinking it down slowly. His mind was buzzing, but Ray felt strangely calm.

He closed his eyes and tried to reach out with his senses, sorting out the faint noises in the sleeping apartment. He could hear Dief dreaming in the living room: the wolf was chasing something in his sleep—probably a Ding Dong—and he could hear the scrabble of Dief’s nails against the hardwood floor. He could also hear the quiet hum of the heat lamp in Gus’ tank, and, beneath it all, the sound of Fraser’s soft snore from the bedroom.

He really liked living with Fraser. He liked sharing meals together, and hanging out, and going places, and going to bed together. He liked the sex, and the companionship. He really liked the way Fraser’d gradually lost that lonely, hunted look over the past few months, and the way one of Fraser’s rare smiles could light up the whole apartment.

Maybe he didn’t have to say anything. They could just go on like they had been, and Fraser wouldn’t have to know that Ray knew. Except…except that wouldn’t be fair. Wouldn’t be buddies. It’d be like Ray was keeping a secret from Fraser. And Ray was sick of secrets.

He used the bathroom and then peeled out of his jeans and t-shirt, sliding into bed next to Fraser. Fraser, being sort of like a really aggressive octopus when it came to their sleeping arrangements, immediately wrapped himself against Ray, throwing an arm across his chest and putting his knee in between Ray’s thighs. He could feel Fraser’s breath ghosting against his neck, and had to close his eyes against Fraser’s deep sigh of contentment. Some detective he was. He should have _known_ , goddamn it.

Ray lay awake for a long, long time, listening to Fraser’s breathing and the sound of his heartbeat. This was supposed to be a nice, friendly sex thing. So why did Ray feel like he was dying inside?

At 6:30 am on the dot the sunlight finally hit the bed, and Fraser opened his eyes and gave a big yawn. He rubbed his foot along Ray’s calf.

“Mmmm, morning Ray,” he mumbled, turning his head to drop a sleepy kiss on Ray’s collarbone. “How was work?”

Ray’s heart did a weird little flip-flop. The guy wasn’t even fully awake yet, barely even conscious, and he was already asking how Ray was doing. But that was Fraser all over: considerate, and kind, and so lonely you could hear it in his voice sometimes. Ray’d just always thought that Fraser’s loneliness was for Canada, or for the people he’d lost. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that Fraser was lonely for _Ray_? That Fraser wanted him, and thought he couldn’t get him?

“Work was…interesting,” Ray said slowly. He’d woken up like this with Fraser a lot in the last few months, and so it felt natural to trace the shell of Fraser’s ear with his thumb before burying his hands in Fraser’s hair and giving him one of those scalp massages he liked so much. Even Fraser’s low hum of contentment was familiar.

“Oh?” Fraser said, his voice still scratchy and rough but starting to lose the fog of sleep. “What happened?

Ray sighed and thumped his head back against the headboard. He had to say something now, or he’d never be able to tell Fraser that he’d figured it out. “Got a call out to Berteau and Rockwell. Mugging and assault of a gay guy named Jason. Said he picked the guy up in a bar and they drove out to the industrial yards. Guy told Jason he wanted some privacy.”

He’d felt Fraser grow tense and stiff against him while he was speaking. By the time Ray got to “privacy” Fraser was trying to pull away, but Ray just wrapped his arm around Fraser’s shoulders and held him close. “Jason took one look at me and went white as a sheet. Said I looked just like the guy who’d mugged him, except I had the wrong accent. Guy was from Minnesota, Jason said. Or Canadian.”

“Ray, I—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ray asked softly. “You never said one goddamn word.”

“And what should I have said?” Fraser’s voice was equally soft, but it was icy, too. As cold as Ray’d ever heard it. “That I was only interested in men who looked like you?”

Ray sucked in a deep breath, trying to get control of himself. “You should have said something, goddammit! Because what the hell have we been doing, all these months? You’re in love with me, Fraser.”

Fraser had been trying to fight off Ray’s hold, but at this last he went totally slack. Ray felt a faint tremor run through his body, and then Fraser moved, so quickly that Ray had no choice but to let him go or risk getting hurt. Or hurting Fraser. More than he already had, anyway.

“And would that information have changed anything, Ray?” Fraser asked, scrambling up off the bed. He was naked, and Ray couldn’t help admiring his pale, smooth body, his soft uncut dick, his hands, which were clenched tightly. Fraser’s chest was flushed dark red, different from the deep colour it went when he was aroused. This was anger, Ray realized. This was how anger really looked on Fraser. Anger, and pain, and some other things that Ray had never wanted to make Fraser feel.

“Damn right it would have changed things. I would have _known_. I would have understood why you…why you…” But he couldn’t say the words. _Why you slept with those other guys. Why you put yourself at risk. Why you look so sad after we make love, and why you always act like this is a dream. Like you expect to wake up any second._

“I would’ve understood how you felt,” Ray finally finished, rubbing his eyes. He felt so tired all of a sudden. Not even angry anymore, just sad. For Fraser, and for himself. Because he’d known all along that there wasn’t really any future in this thing between them. He couldn’t have with Fraser what he’d had with Stella. He wasn’t gay, and he wasn’t about to be someone’s…someone’s boyfriend. That wasn’t how he was wired.

“Look, you know how I feel about you. I do love you. But it’s a friendship kind of love, Fraser. Not a, you know, hearts-and-flowers thing.”

He wasn’t looking at Fraser. He couldn’t look at him. But he recognized the raw pain that flashed across Fraser’s face for the instant before Fraser locked it away.

“Oh yes. I know that, Ray. I’m well aware of that. You could never love another man, after all. That’s not who you are.” He heard the anger creeping back into Fraser’s voice, and suddenly he wished that he’d never brought any of this up. One of them was going to say something really ugly any second, and then it’d all be over.

But it was already over, wasn’t it? The good thing they’d had was gone. And maybe their friendship, too.

“Yeah, maybe,” Ray bit out. “You know I’m not gay. You know that.”

Fraser just nodded, folding his arms over his big, broad chest and glaring down at the floor. “Oh yes, Ray, I’m well aware of that. You’re willing to…to _fuck_ me,” And God, it sounded ugly when Fraser said it like that, “but you’re not even slightly bisexual.”

The word threw him for a second. _Bisexual_. What the hell was that, anyway? If he really could play for both teams, Ray knew he’d made his choice long ago. Women. Stella. Fraser was his _friend_ , goddamn it!

“I never said—I never said that this was about love,” he told Fraser, barely reigning in his temper. Who the hell did the Mountie think he was, anyway? Fraser was the most fucked-up person Ray knew, and for him to just come in here and throw around words like _bisexual_ , and look at Ray like Ray was carving his heart out with a spoon…

“I know,” Fraser said roughly. “I know you never said that. Love was never part of our arrangement. It was only my own foolishness that led me to hope—”

Anodynes, Ray thought, crazily, and felt himself go numb at the painful catch in Fraser’s voice. He looked down at the floor, listening to the sounds of Fraser gathering his clothes together and pulling them on. A few seconds later, he heard Fraser call for Diefenbaker, and then the door slammed shut behind them.

Ray sank down onto the bed and put his head in his hands. What the hell had he just done?

***

After that, sleep was pretty much impossible. Ray tossed and turned for most of the morning, but every time he started to drift into a light doze, some flash of memory from the last few months—Fraser sucking his cock, so slow and so sweet, laughing with Fraser over cheap chow mein, spooning together in bed—would make him start awake. Around noon he decided that going for a drive would help clear his head. The sunlight outside was almost blinding, but he felt fuzzy and disconnected from his body. Like he was only going through the motions.

He drove around for a while on autopilot, and before he realized it, he was parked in front of Stella’s office.

Debbie, the office administrator for the State’s Attorney, looked a little worried when she saw him lurking in the doorway. He must look pretty bad, he realized. He’d been up for almost twenty-four hours and hadn’t shaved or showered yet, and Debbie had been around for that really bad period right after the divorce, when Ray would show up unannounced at Stella’s office and demand to see her.

He tried to smile at Debbie to reassure her a little, but Debbie just looked scared.

“Uh, is Stella in?”

“I think she’s busy, Ray.”

“Yeah.” Ray hung his head. “Look, I just need to talk to her for a quick sec, and ask her about something. Please?” He kept his hands loose and relaxed at his sides, and tried to radiate non-threatening vibes. It must’ve worked, because after a long, assessing look, Debbie picked up the phone and dialed Stella’s extension.

“Ray’s here to see you, hon,” Debbie said, keeping her eyes locked on Ray. “Got a minute for him?”

Stella said something, and Debbie nodded and put the phone back into its cradle. “She’ll see you, but only for a couple of minutes. It’s a busy day.”

“Thanks,” Ray said softly, and kept his hands in his pocket as he strode down the hall to Stella’s office.

She was sitting behind a desk piled high with public prosecution cases, tapping at her keyboard and squinting at the ancient computer monitor, like she could will the machine to go faster, or the font size to get bigger.

“Eyesight getting worse?” Ray asked from the doorway. Stella looked up and rolled her eyes at him.

“I don’t need glasses, Ray,” she sighed, and pushed away from her desk. “I need a computer that wasn’t built in 1992.” She shot him a narrow look, a clear message of get-to-the-point-ness. Ray cleared his throat.

“Sure, Stell. Whatever you say. But all that squinting is gonna give you wrinkles.”

She smiled at him and dropped the attitude, and Ray stepped into her office and closed the door. He paced a bit on the tiny aisle of carpet not piled high with legal briefs and document boxes, conscious all the time of how closely Stella was watching him. Time was, she could guess by the set of his shoulders what was bothering him. But they hadn’t known each other that well in a long, long time.

“Ray, what is it?” she asked softly, and he stopped his pacing and dropped down into the nearest handy chair.

“When we were married,” he said, watching her grow tense and wary again. He tried to smile, to show her that he wasn’t here to have that kind of conversation. “When we were married,” he said again, “Did you ever think that maybe I was…different, than how I seemed?”

“Different how?” Stella was looking at him in a new way, like she was evaluating him all over again. And he knew that, in this moment, he was more like an important exhibit in a case than the guy she’d known for nearly twenty-five years.

“Different like…like maybe I wasn’t interested in just women.”

That shocked her. Stella flushed a little, and jerked upright. “Ray, what are you telling me?” she asked, her voice sharpening with uncertainty. That was more like ADA Kowalski, courtroom warrior: she always grew more controlled, more articulate, when she was upset. A little like Fraser, he thought with a wince.

“I’ve been sleeping with someone. A guy,” he clarified, and watched Stella’s eyes widen in shock. “And now it turns out that this guy is in love with me, only I didn’t notice. And I’m not sure why. Maybe it wasn’t something I wanted to let myself see. Or maybe it’s because I’m worried that I can’t love him back. Because I’m not…I’m not gay, Stell.”

She licked her lips, and seemed to collect herself. She was actually handling it pretty well, he thought. Not every woman could hear that her ex-husband was sleeping with another man and manage not to freak out a little about the news.

“Ray, if you’re sleeping with a guy, I think that means you’re gay,” she told him seriously, as though she were delivering bad news. “Or bisexual. Actions mean more than words, after all. But is it the label that makes you uncomfortable?”

“Kinda,” he shrugged. “And…I haven’t really worked it out in my head. What that means. What loving him would mean.”

Stella nodded and tilted her head, and for a second Ray felt very, very nervous. He knew that look, too. She was putting the pieces together.

“It’s Constable Fraser, isn’t it? You’re sleeping with your partner?” She sounded more shocked about that than she had about the whole gay thing. With reason, Ray supposed. After all, if his and Fraser’s relationship was finished, and their friendship, than so was the partnership. And that meant—

He really didn’t want to think about what that meant. Pairing up with someone else. A transfer. God, Fraser might actually go back to Canada.

His palms were sweating, and Ray tried to wipe them discreetly on his jeans. “Stell, it’s really not my place to say, okay?”

“But it is Fraser,” she said with a familiar brand of surefire confidence. He’d forgotten that about her. She’d always liked to be right. And most of the time, that meant he had to be wrong.

“So you two have been…what, sleeping together? And you thought it was only about the sex?”

Ray nodded, staring at the ugly black-and-white aerial shot of the Gold Coast hanging above Stella’s desk. She’d had that thing for years, and he’d always hated it. Just another reminder of all the reasons why they hadn’t really belonged together.

“Well, Ray, I have to say, I’m a bit surprised.”

“By the…by the bisexual thing?” he said, just to try the word out.

She looked at him carefully. “No. Well, yes, but you’re right. There were times when I wondered…” She waved it off. “Mostly I’m surprised that you’ve been doing this with your partner. With Fraser. He’s just so—”

He tried to finish off that sentence in his head. Stella and Fraser had never really gotten along, and he’d often wondered what they thought of each other. Fraser didn’t seem to think it was polite to offer any opinion about Stella, other than to say she was “a very good attorney” and “a remarkably forthright woman.”

But Stella didn’t seem to feel any similar kind of restraint. “He’s just so odd,” she finished. “Odd, and a little bland. I’d always thought that people were being unkind when they said an ‘interesting Canadian’ was an oxymoron, but the Constable seems determined to prove that point. He’s nuts, but he’s still got all the personality of a jar of mayonnaise.”

She looked at him like she wanted to share the joke, but Ray didn’t think it was funny. She coughed a little, and went on. “I always thought you’d fall for someone who had a bit more passion. Fraser’s always seemed so closed off.”

This time, Ray couldn’t ignore the succession of memories that assaulted him. It was a little like opening a tap and then not being able to shut off the rush of water. He pictured Fraser’s face when he came, and the sweet joy on his face when he’d come in late to find Ray cooking something, or dozing on the couch. And the way Fraser talked, telling stories about truth and justice and loss, his voice a low rumble beneath Ray’s cheek.

“He’s not,” Ray said suddenly, surprising them both. “He’s not closed off. Or ‘odd’ or eccentric or nuts, or whatever else you think he is. He’s just a guy who’s spent too much time alone.”

He couldn’t swallow. His throat was so dry, almost cracked open with the sudden pain of speech. “And he’s passionate. God, Stella, he’s so passionate. He cares about everything! He really, genuinely cares about people. And he cares about me,” Ray said softly. “He _loves_ me, even when I act like an asshole.”

The clock on Stella’s desk was ticking away, and the sound of it finally made him realize what a moron he was being. Ray clamped his mouth shut and sat down. The tips of his ears were burning. It was pretty clear who the real nutcase was, here. He stared hard at the carpet, waiting for Stella’s response.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” was all she said. Ray sagged in his chair.

“Yeah. I guess I am.”

***


	7. Chapter 7

***

He went home after that. During the drive back to his apartment Ray’s mind played a little movie reel of scenes from “Getting Back With Fraser. ” He imagined going over to the Consulate and sweeping up Fraser in a passionate kiss as the music swelled behind them, and saying things like, “I love you” over and over until Fraser believed him.

But he hadn’t slept yet, and he doubted showing up unwashed, unshaven, and with pupils blown wide from exhaustion would really convince Fraser that he was sincere. So Ray stumbled to his bed and crashed.

When he woke up it was just past six, and the quality of the light in the early summer evening made him feel groggy and disoriented. He found himself reaching out for Fraser before he realized that Fraser wasn’t there. Might never be there again. The thought sent him into a panic, and Ray raced into the bathroom, running through his shower/shave/hair gel routine in just under ten minutes. He cut himself shaving, and had to scramble for some Kleenex to stanch the blood, which ran in a narrow red trickle down his throat.

“Get a grip, Ray,” he told himself sternly, and went to pull on some clothes.

The drive over to the Consulate seemed to take forever, and the building was closed and locked up when he arrived. He pounded on the door for a long, long time, but there was no answer. Not even a twitch of the curtains in the foyer, or a yelp from Dief who, Ray was convinced, was probably on his side and willing to give the game away. One thing was clear: Fraser wasn’t home.

Ray sat down on the Consulate steps and tried to figure out his next move. He had no idea where Fraser could be. The library, maybe, or that old moviehouse down on Grant where they showed the kind of ancient black-and-white flicks that Fraser liked. Or he could just be out wandering the streets with Dief, looking for parking violations.

The thought made his throat tighten, and it was all Ray could do to hold it together and not break down in front of the winos camped out in the park down the block. Could Fraser already be gone? It’d take a couple of weeks for him to get a transfer, Ray was pretty sure, but he could have just taken an emergency vacation and vamoosed. He might never even see his friend again. His lover.

“Hey man, you okay?”

Ray looked up, and saw that it was one of the bums from the park. The guy reeked of whiskey and stale piss, but he looked pretty coherent.

“I’m okay,” Ray said, getting slowly to his feet. He dug around in his back pocket for his wallet, and handed the guy a ten dollar bill. “Nice of you to ask.”

The wino took his money and pocketed it, and then squinted up at him. _Maybe he needs glasses too_ , Ray thought.

“You friends with Benton?”

Ray blinked. _Benton_? “You mean Fraser? The Mountie?”

The guy nodded. “Yeah, Benton Fraser. Nice guy. He made me and Phil some sandwiches last week. Ate his lunch with us, and we talked about how good it feels to have a home.”

“Oh,” Ray said, totally thrown.

He hadn’t known. He hadn’t even guessed.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Ray nodded, trying to keep his hands from shaking. How could he have not known? “Hey, you wouldn’t have any idea where I can find him, huh?”

The homeless guy beamed at him, revealing two missing teeth and one that was already going a little black. “Sure can. 1200 South Lakeshore.”

Ray frowned. “Shedd Aquarium?”

“Yep,” he said cheerily. “Some diplomat or something showed up with her kids today and asked what there was to do in the city. Benton suggested the Shedd, and the lady asked if he’d help her find the place and make sure her kids don’t get lost.”

“Oh,” Ray said again, stupidly. “That was nice of him.”

“Like I said, he’s a nice guy.”

“Okay. Thanks again,” Ray told him, wondering why a wino knew more about Fraser than he did. But then the answer to that was depressingly obvious, and so Ray tried not to dwell on it. “You and Phil take care, okay?” He got another bill out of his wallet and handed it off, not even checking to see what he’d just given the guy. He raced down the steps, jumped into his car, and after some agonizing moments navigating city rush-hour traffic, he was heading down Lakeshore towards the Shedd.

He hadn’t been to the Aquarium since he was a little kid. His mom had taken him a couple of times to see the dolphins and the sting rays, and he’d gone once in high school as part of a marine biology unit in science class. When he pulled onto the museum campus he sat for a minute in the parking lot, checking out the Field Museum and the great white temple that was the Shedd. It was a pretty breathtaking building, all carved Grecian columns and a long, wide white staircase that led right up to the front entrance and the ticket office. He paid his $15.95 admission (and jeeze, that sure had changed in the fifteen years since he’d last been to here) and stood in the front lobby, trying to spot Fraser in the sea of tourists and young families.

The place still smelled exactly as he remembered, like chlorine and salt water and floor wax. It brought back 11th grade, and Stella, and memories from even further back, when he was just a little kid, and how safe he’d felt, holding his mother’s hand.

“Where are you, Fraser?” he muttered, and began to look.

Five exhibits later, Ray had seen eels and sea turtles and jellyfish, but no Fraser. Not even a glimpse of a red tunic or a set of powerful shoulders. He even went down to the cafeteria, whose menu featured a pretty disturbing amount of cooked fish, but Fraser wasn’t there, either. It was getting late and most of the families with young kids had cleared out, so the only people left were a few teenagers looking for a quiet corner to neck in, and a couple of academic-looking types from the university. There was still no sign of Fraser.

In desperation, Ray checked the Whale Harbor. There wasn’t a show going on, and so the auditorium was mostly empty. The beluga whales and dolphins (or were they porpoises? He could never remember the difference) were just swimming around. Ray leaned up against the Plexiglas guardrail and watched them splash in the water for a while. The sun was setting over the city, and the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that let light into the whale’s tank gave him a pretty good view of the Chicago skyline. The lights in the city were just winking on. He watched as the setting sun turned the sky a brilliant shade of orange and scattered small, warm pools of light over the surface of Lake Michigan.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Ben.”

One of the belugas popped up, maybe hoping Ray was a trainer with food. He watched the fat, sleek white whale bob there for a while. He’d lost everything. He’d lost it before he’d really known what he had. And maybe Fraser would forgive him, but he didn’t think Fraser would ever believe him. Believe that Ray loved him.

“I lost him, didn’t I?” Ray said to the whale, who looked at him with what Ray imagined was sympathy. “I’ve lost him for good.”

He said goodbye to Shamu Jr., and left the whale habitat. As he shuffled towards the front of the building, he tried to imagine going back to his empty apartment and his cold bed. And how it would feel in the morning when he woke up and Fraser wasn’t there to hand him a cup of coffee or tug him into the shower. The thought hurt and he swayed for a few moments in front of the Caribbean Reef tank. A sandbar shark glided by, sizing Ray up with its cold, black eyes.

“Sharks are older than the dinosaurs, you know.”

Ray jerked back from the tank, his heart thundering.

Fraser. Fraser was there, standing not two feet away from him. Ray resisted the urge to throw his arms around Fraser’s neck and kiss him senseless, and shoved his hands in his pocket so that he wouldn’t be tempted to do anything before he’d even spoken to the guy.

“Oh yeah?” he asked conversationally, feeling a little dizzy. There was so much he wanted to say to Fraser, so much he’d figured out over the course of this weird, shitty day, that he didn’t quite know where to start. “I didn’t know that.”

Fraser just nodded, like he always did when Ray didn’t know something. When Ray’d first met him, he thought Fraser did it to be a jerk, but he’d figured out that Fraser only nodded like that because he’d been waiting for some signal to continue. He wanted to tell Ray something important, and that nod was his way of making sure Ray wanted to know.

“Yes. They predate any land vertebrates, and most species of plant. They are, among the oldest and most resilient of all life on earth. They survived ice ages, the devastation of the asteroid that struck the Yucatan peninsula, and millions of years of evolution. They are survivors. You can see it in their eyes, I think.”

Ray took another look at the sandbar shark. It was swimming past again, following a pattern set by instinct and the dull routines of a lifetime spent in captivity. He watched the way the shark swam, every movement perfectly calibrated to produce both speed and grace as it cut through the water. And yeah, Fraser was right. When the shark looked at him, Ray could see the gleam of some kind of ancient, glittering intelligence that made him shudder and look away.

“I saw Jaws eleven times when it came out. Scared me so bad I never wanted try swimming, not even in an indoor pool.”

He rubbed at his mouth, which felt dry and clumsy. “Which, you know. There’s no ocean within 1200 miles of here. This is the only place in Chicago with any sharks. Guess I’ve always been afraid of the really stupid stuff, huh?”

He risked a glance at Fraser, who’d at least turned to look at him now. His eyes were narrowed and his expression was tough to read, but Ray thought there might be some signs of hope there.

“Ray, what are you saying?”

Ray shrugged. “Went to see Stella, after you left. We talked, and I told her…I told her I was bisexual.” Fraser’s face lit up, and Ray scrambled to clarify. “Sorta,” he said, and Fraser’s face closed up again. “Actually, she was the one who used that word. But it fits, right? Because I am. For you, I am.”

Fraser was nodding, but he didn’t look very happy. He was watching the shark tank again, and Ray sighed. This wasn’t going very well.

“Ray, I’m not sure it would be wise to label yourself based on your physical reactions to me. Particularly given how fluid your feelings seem to be.”

Ray ran that back in his head. _Fluid_. And _physical reactions_. What the hell was Fraser saying?

“Fraser,” he said, and then stopped short. “Benton.” And that was much better. “ _Ben_. You gotta know I’m not talking about sex, here. This was never about sex. Not really. This was about you and me. And I didn’t get that until today.”

Fraser took a step closer, relaxing out of his military at-ease posture. He didn’t touch Ray, but his shoulder brushed against the sleeve of Ray’s coat, and Ray listened to the different leather parts of Fraser’s uniform creak as Fraser shifted his weight, trying to work out what he wanted to say.

“What do you ‘get’, Ray?”

“That I love you,” Ray said quietly, meeting his eyes. “That I’ve been in love with you since the night you got hurt. Longer, maybe. And now I don’t know how to stop.” He put his hand on Fraser’s arm, and was relieved when Fraser didn’t flinch away. “I don’t want to stop, Fraser. Please don’t ask me to stop.”

Fraser bowed his head, the brim of the Stetson covering his eyes. Ray cupped Fraser’s face and tilted his head up. Fraser’s eyes were shining and wet, and just as blue as the water in the Caribbean Reef tank.

“I won’t,” he said, his voice rough. “I won’t ever ask you to stop, Ray. If you mean it.”

“I mean it,” Ray told him, and sealed his promise with a kiss.

***

_Epilogue – Two Weeks Later_  


_Wet_ was really hopping tonight, and the dance floor was crowded with a huge crush of bodies. The music still sucked, but Ray figured that was maybe part of the place’s charm. No one came here for the music, anyway.

He scanned the crowd, fanning himself a little. “Wet” really was the wrong name for the club. “Heat” would have been much more appropriate.

“Here you are, Ray,” Fraser said, appearing at Ray’s shoulder and handing him a cold bottle of water, already dripping with condensation after only a minute or so in the hot club. Ray held the plastic bottle to his sweaty cheek and closed his eyes. Bliss. Or, not quite.

He wrapped his arm around Fraser’s waist and drew him in close, swaying with him a little in time with the music. Fraser only hesitated for a second, and then he looped his arm over Ray’s shoulder.

There. Now it was bliss.

“Do you see him?” Fraser murmured in Ray’s ear, his breath fanning hot over Ray’s sweaty neck.

“Yeah. Over by the bar. He just came out of the bathroom.”

Fraser moved to block Ray’s view, and kissed Ray firmly, his tongue darting into Ray’s mouth. Ray bit back a groan. He was tempted to pull Fraser even closer, maybe grind their hips together a bit, but appearances to the contrary, they were working. And as if to remind them, the wire in Ray’s ear crackled to life.

“Any sign of our mark?” Jack Huey asked.

Ray pulled away from the temptation of Fraser’s mouth and smiled at him, shaking his head ruefully. “Yep, we’ve got Bozo in our sights,” Ray said, speaking softly into the mic hidden in the collar of his shirt. He raised an eyebrow at Fraser, and Fraser nodded, instantly getting it. “Ready to move whenever you are.”

Jack said something to Dewey, who was crammed into the surveillance van outside with Jack. They’d accessed the club’s CCTV feed and were parked just outside _Wet_ ’s delivery entrance, waiting for their signal. Ray had convinced Jack and Dewey that he and Fraser could handle things inside the club, and that Dewey’s cutoffs would only serve to tip off their mark and lose them the collar. He felt bad for sticking Jack with Dewey (and his fish smell) in the surveillance van, but it couldn’t be helped. They were making omelets, here.

“Okay, we’re good to go,” Jack said over the earpiece, and Ray squeezed Fraser’s shoulder.

“Good to go, buddy,” he said, and in a matter of minutes they’d crossed the dance floor, declared themselves as CPD officers (well, one CPD officer and one Canadian transplant) and had taken John Laramie down for two counts of aggravated assault, two counts of robbery, and two counts of trespassing at the Rockwell Industrial Grounds.

While Fraser held Laramie pinned facedown on the bar, Ray read him his rights and snapped a pair of cuffs on the bastard. “…if you got no home, an attorney will be provided to you, and they’re not going charge you anything for it. Understand me, greaseball?” Ray asked, shoving Laramie’s head back down before he could turn and get a good look at Fraser.

“Ray, it’s all right,” Fraser said, grasping Laramie by the arms and hauling him up on his feet. Ray drew in a little breath of shock. No wonder Jason Lee had been so shaken up by Ray’s sudden appearance at the crime scene. Ray and John Laramie could’ve been siblings. Practically twins. Sure, Laramie was wearing a better suit and his hair wasn’t quite as cool as Ray’s, but he was the spitting image, aside from the nasty smirk he was giving Fraser. The guy made Ray feel a little sick to his stomach.

“Let’s get this jerk processed and go home, Ben,” he said.

“With pleasure, Ray,” Fraser agreed.

***

Ray tumbled back onto the bed. “God, that was good.”

“I’m glad, Ray,” Fraser said, giving his mouth a cursory wipe before curling up against him. They were both sweaty but only Ray was sticky: he raised his head to give Fraser a quick once-over.

“You didn’t come?”

“Ah,” Fraser said, and Ray found it difficult to get annoyed, under the circumstances. “Well, no. Not yet.”

That made Ray smile. Even though his limbs felt like jelly, he felt a thrill of anticipation course through his body. “What’d you have in mind?”

“Well, I was wondering if perhaps you were at all inclined to—

“Fraser, just spit it out!”

“I’d like to make love to you, Ray.”

Wow. Okay. Ray stared up at the ceiling for a second. They’d been building up to this in the last few weeks, and he’d known that, sooner or later, Fraser would ask. They’d started out with fingers, and Ray’d been okay with that. It felt weird, but good-weird, like most of the stuff he’d done with Fraser. But Fraser hadn’t pushed, of course.

“What if I say no?”

Fraser’s face was close, so close. He kissed Ray’s shoulder, his neck. “Then we do something else. It’s not…it’s not essential, Ray, as I’ve been saying. But I think you’d find it extremely pleasurable.”

Yeah, he probably would. He’d done Fraser for the first time about a week ago, and that’d been good, but he did have the feeling he was missing out on something. The way Fraser had gone wild, shaking and bucking beneath him, and the way it’d felt to be buried inside Fraser…

Ray blinked. Now wasn’t really the time to replay that whole amazing night. Since then they’d been busy with tracking Laramie down; this was the first time they’d had more than a few minutes together, and so it made sense that Fraser would bring it up now.

He thought about the question, and about what it meant for Fraser to ask him. He wasn’t afraid of being hurt anymore, hurt and abandoned like Larry Chan. He knew that Fraser would never do that to him. And he’d done some reading: there wasn’t much danger of Fraser accidentally causing any damage as long as Fraser took it slow, and Ray stayed relaxed.

Which he could definitely do at the moment: the blowjob Fraser had just given him had been good enough to keep Ray floating for the rest of the evening.

“Okay,” Ray said, reaching up to kiss Fraser. “Yes, okay. Let’s do it. Just…go slow, okay?”

“Of course,” Fraser said gently, and Ray admired the view as Fraser padded off to the bathroom to get the lube and a condom.

So. The big show. And Ray found that he didn’t feel nervous at all. He trusted Fraser. They loved each other. And whatever happened tonight, he knew he’d feel good about it in the morning. He hadn’t regretted a single thing they’d done together. And…and what did it matter, anyway? Ray was bi. Gay. Whatever the right label was. He and Fraser were playing for keeps, and that meant he had to get over his fears and insecurities. He was doing this for _them_ , and for himself. Because Ray had a feeling that he was going to enjoy this.

He settled down to wait, folding the blanket neatly over his hips. When he looked up, he found that Fraser was watching him, a soft smile on his face.

“I love you,” Fraser said, and Ray grinned at him.

“Hey, I already said yes, okay? I’m a sure thing.” He winked at Fraser, who sat down on the bed and mock-growled at Ray.

“That’s not funny,” he said, and Ray had to laugh.

“Sure it is.” He wiggled against Fraser’s big, warm body, and ruffled his hair. “It’s kind of hilarious, actually. Because we were dopes, Ben. Big, stupid dopes.”

Fraser tried to frown at him, but the effect was ruined when Fraser couldn’t quite manage to keep a straight face. “That’s redundant, Ray.”

Ray leaned in to kiss him until he felt Fraser’s mouth grow wet and slack under his, and then pulled back. “No one likes a Grammar Nazi, Fraser. Now c’mon. Let’s do this before I die of waiting.” He reached down to find that Fraser was, yep, still hard. Fraser was definitely the only guy Ray knew who could maintain an erection and remember what a redundancy was.

“Do you want me on my back, or on my belly?” Ray asked, kissing the corner of Fraser’s mouth, and working his way down Fraser’s chest.

Fraser threaded his hands through Ray’s hair and rubbed the back of his neck, pulling him closer and guiding him down his body. “Back, I think. I’d like very much to see you.”

“So see me,” Ray murmured. He closed his eyes and lay back down, legs bent at the knees. He watched as Fraser squirted some lube on his fingers, and then gave Ray’s flaccid cock a few gentle strokes. That felt good. No way could Ray get hard again so soon, but he always liked to feel Fraser’s hands on him. He relaxed a little, and when he was ready, he nodded to Fraser, and Fraser moved down to the edge of the mattress, sliding one slick finger slowly into Ray’s body. Ray gasped and stiffened, and after a second his body loosened up. Fraser added a second finger, and it was easier this time.

Fraser held still for a long moment, and then began to move his hand, twisting and flexing a little, opening Ray up. Ray groaned, and closed his eyes. It still felt strange, but it was good, too. And when Fraser found that magic button inside, it started to feel _really_ good.

He shivered and scrabbled at Fraser’s shoulder, needing to kiss him, to establish some kind of connection beyond the two fingers buried in his body. Fraser obliged and kissed him intently, all the time moving his hand in that same heady twist-stroke-withdraw movement that had Ray seeing stars.

“I’m ready,” Ray finally gasped when he could, and shuddered as Fraser withdrew his hand and did the lube-condom-lube thing. Ray’s whole body was buzzing with anticipation, and he sighed in contentment as Fraser lined himself up, the head of his dick just brushing Ray’s hole.

“It’s gonna be good, isn’t it?” Ray asked, looking up and meeting Fraser’s eyes. Fraser smiled at him.

“Yes. It’s going to be very good, Ray.”

THE END


End file.
